History Lesson
by ktwontwo
Summary: It is said that those who do not know their history are condemned to repeat it. When the past becomes an all too immediate present, the three Holmes brothers find themselves learning things that were never set down in the history books. The 3rd tale in the 2.5 Holmes 'Verse
1. Prologue

**Title:** History Lesson

 **Disclaimer:** I own no rights. I make no profit.

* * *

 **Prologue – And There Was Light**

The second floor of the Victoria and Albert Museum was quiet. It was half one in the morning and a strange opalescent glow was emanating from a wall display in Room 62. The case in question was rather unassuming. Practically every history museum worldwide had a similar display. It held a modest collection of rather unremarkable medieval British swords and daggers. The swords were artistically arranged in fan on the back wall of the case while a number of daggers lined the case's floor. According to the plaques provided, the purpose of this particular display was to showcase the variety of weapons available at the time as well as to provide acknowledgement of the donors of each piece. None of these weapons were particularly valuable. Most of them had been donations from one member of the peerage or another presumably as a tax write off or to gain wall space in the family seat. Regardless of their providence none of the weapons should in any way glow but there in the case one sword and its companion dagger were quietly sitting creating their own light.

One would assume that those charged with keeping the various museum artifacts safe would have noticed such a strange occurrence. One would be wrong. In fact the guards remained blissfully unaware of these events. The first guard was a stalwart man who took his job very seriously. He had already checked and cleared Room 62 sometime before the glowing commenced.

The second guard, a younger man who had been hired for his technical expertise with alarm systems and cameras, was distracted by a phone call from his girlfriend. The girlfriend had just arrived home from work as a bartender in one of the classier hotels to find her flat in disarray with the window wide open. Nothing appeared to have been taken but she was understandably upset. It took him a few minutes to calm her down and return to his normal duties. The phone call meant that the younger guard not only missed seeing the glow but also missed the fact that various portions of the security systems seemed to be having intermittent problems. First the sensor on one of the basement doors read "trouble" for several seconds. Various cameras fuzzed out in static for thirty to fifty seconds or so before coming back on line. Finally the alarm on the case in room 62 took itself offline and remained so for a little under a minute. By the time the first guard had finished his rounds and the second had finished his phone call the glowing sword and dagger were both gone.

It took the museum two whole days to notice the theft due to the fact that the curator for that particular collection had been out sick with a case of food poisoning. It almost wasn't discovered at all because the plaques corresponding to the missing items had also been removed. Only the curator who knew his charges intimately noticed the change and raised the alarm to his superiors.

Upon discovering the missing items the museum Director called New Scotland Yard who immediately dispatched its burglary unit along with a couple members of its antiquities squad. The officers took an initial report, made a cursory search and called for a forensics team to check for fingerprints. It was at this point things became unusual.

Much to the surprise of the NSY officers the crime scene was suddenly invaded by a number of hard faced men and women who politely indicated that this particular theft was now the remit of a department of the British Government that none of the officers had ever heard of but seemed to be somehow connected to MI5. After discussion with their superiors the NSY officers ceded control and departed leaving the puzzled V&A staff to deal with a bunch of suited individuals wearing earpieces lead by a drop dead gorgeous woman who seemed to be inordinately focused on her Blackberry.

This new set of investigators closed off room 62 and examined it minutely. They then proceeded to go over the entire museum with a fine tooth comb questioning everyone and anyone who had been in the building after public hours for the past week. They also requested to review the overnight security tapes for the same time period. The review revealed the anomalies in the security system of several days prior resulting in a shift in the focus of the investigation. After background checks and a thorough interrogation the guards were acquitted of anything more than minor inattentiveness. The intermittently failing cameras and sensors were removed and replaced and the camera feeds on that night were taken into custody as evidence.

Thus, it was on the morning of the fourth day (third if you take into account that the theft occurred in the wee hours of the morning) after the disappearance of the items that a report along with copies of the surveillance tapes was placed on the desk of a certain minor government official in a rather nondescript office somewhere near Whitehall.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** For those of you familiar with the 2.5 Holmes 'Verse this is the original plot bunny spawned when I started beta reading Kenoria's (Erif_of_Taloma on AO3) _MIA: Missing in America_. Despite being the first of many ideas engendered by that effort I found that I couldn't tell this tale without having some background in place. Thus, the rest of what has become 2.5 Holmes is, at least in part, an effort to get back to the original idea that started the whole endeavor. I hope you enjoy.


	2. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Title:** History Lesson

 **Disclaimer:** I own no rights. I make no profit.

* * *

 **Chapter 1 – Something Wicked This Way Comes**

It was a Friday morning. I'd had a bit of a lie in since I didn't have a locum shift scheduled. Normally on such a day I would have gone down to the sitting room as soon as I awoke but Sherlock had been in one of his moods. He hadn't really moved much from the sofa and it had been all I could do to get him to eat and drink even minimal amounts. I figured if he kept it up for another 24 hours I'd need to do something a bit more drastic than just leaving food and drink within arm's reach and grumbling until he managed to bestir himself and imbibe something. All of which was why I wasn't in any hurry to rise from my bed and start the day. Unfortunately there is only so much lazing about that I can do at any one sitting so I got up, performed my morning ablutions and headed for the kitchen while ignoring the lump on the sofa that was my flat mate. I had just turned on the kettle when my mobile went off. It was Lestrade.

"So what's up with his royal highness?" he asked before I could even say hello. "Is the prat ignoring me or has something happened?"

"He's vegetating on the sofa and has been for the last two days," I replied.

"Sulk or…."

Lestrade was one of the few people who knew that there was a distinct difference between a sulking Sherlock and one flattened by ennui. The latter condition was more concerning because it tended to result in bullet holes in walls, strange experiments or something that in a normal person might be considered depression. Sherlock had in the past avoided the dreaded depressed state by use of controlled substances. Lestrade was right to be concerned.

"I suspect he's just…"

"Bored," a tired sounding baritone interrupted from the direction of the sitting room.

"I heard that. If he's so bored why won't he respond to my texts?" Lestrade asked.

I didn't know what exactly to tell him. Luckily I didn't have to say anything.

"I've got three bodies in a locked room, lots of blood, a sword and what looks to be a mangled set of tent poles. Think you could get him to come take a look?"

"Three bloody bodies in a locked room for how long?" I asked aloud knowing that despite his statement Sherlock was listening.

"At least a day, maybe more. Things are starting to get ripe."

"And what the heck do tent poles and a sword have to do with anything?"

"Got me mate."

I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. Sherlock was standing in the kitchen doorway. I cocked my head asking without saying anything. Sherlock rolled his eyes then turned presumably heading toward the loo.

"Given me the address and about 45 minutes," I said then added, "And I hope it's as good as it looks to you otherwise we may have a problem."

"Roger," Lestrade acknowledged then provided me the address of a warehouse in one of Greater London's seedier industrial areas.

We actually made it to the crime scene about 50 minutes after Lestrade's call. This was in part due to the argument over food. I finally had to point out that fainting in front of the fine officers of the MET was not only embarrassing but also a good way to destroy relevant evidence. Only then did Sherlock deign to eat a couple pieces of toast with honey and gulp down a cup of tea. We would have been much later but for Sherlock's quasi-magical ability to not only summon a cab out of nowhere but also acquire one with a driver who actually knew the meaning of haste.

When we disembarked at the warehouse the constable on the door indicated that we'd find Lestrade on the second floor near the back. The warehouse layout appeared to be typical of its age; three stories with a high ceiling ground floor, small overlooking first floor and presumably a set of office type rooms on the second. As we headed for the stairway I noticed a team from forensics over by the loading dock. Sherlock dismissed them with a glance focused instead on finding the stairs. I knew from the way his eyes were flicking about that his apparent distraction was nothing of the sort and he was cataloging all sorts of information for later use.

We went up the stairs. Sally Donavan was standing on the first floor landing leaning slightly against the wall. She straightened up when she saw us but instead of making a snide comment she merely waived us on. Sherlock quickly looked her up and down but seemed content to honor her détente and didn't say anything. We kept climbing.

Sherlock opened the door off the second floor landing and swept through in his usual fashion. I followed only to encounter a rather specific odor. My treasonous brain then helpfully supplied the memory of when I had last encountered that particular smell. Suddenly I was once again standing on the sands of Afghanistan preparing to enter yet another house. It had been a horrific scene. Some group, we suspected the Taliban, had slaughtered an entire village right down to the children. It was clear that after the first couple houses they had eschewed using bullets for the most part and switched to bladed weapons. We had arrived less than 24 hours after the events but still the stench of blood and flesh just beginning to decompose was etched in my memory. A hand landed on my shoulder and I blinked. Sherlock was standing directly in front of me. I could tell he was deducing and I steeled myself for whatever he was going to say.

He cocked his head at me and said, "I have always found it amazing that of all the senses people tend to discount the sense of smell. Not only is it an integral part of taste it is also the sense with the closest relation to memory and emotion."

He then took off his scarf and proceeded to wrap it around my neck, neatly tucking the ends into my jacket. He took another close look at my face then nodded to himself in satisfaction while turning away. He strode down the hall and around the corner leaving me to recover my wits and follow.

I cleared the corner just in time to see Sherlock pause in an open doorway almost at the end of the hall before entering. I'm not quite sure what I was expecting but it was not a series of offices that clearly had been retrofitted into a flat like configuration. The main room that opened off the hall seemed to be a sitting room kitchen combination but there were sleeping bags on the floor in addition to a battered dining room set. There were a couple of doors that presumably lead to bedrooms. The strange thing about them was that the hinges to those doors had been modified to have the pins on the side of the sitting room. I didn't like the implications of that one bit.

Lestrade was standing in the middle of the room watching Sherlock who was now standing stock still in one of the bedroom doorways. When I got close enough to see in I realized why. As Lestrade had said there were three bodies, an awful lot of blood, a pile of mangled light weight poles and a sword stuck in the wall. What he hadn't described was the position of the bodies and the sheet tacked up to one wall with a blanket folded as a pad in front of it. I'd seen that sort of set up too many times before not to know what it was. All of which meant that the mangled poles were most likely a tripod for a camera and the scimitar in the wall had been intended for an execution. Clearly something had not gone according to plan.

"I see why you called me," Sherlock said to Lestrade.

"The camera boys have been through," Lestrade replied unnecessarily given the little yellow tent like numbers that were scattered all over the room. He added, "No samples have been taken yet so if you see something new drop a number on it for me."

He handed me a pile of the yellow cards. I stuffed them in my coat pocket and took a deep breath preparing to enter the room. The scarf proved its worth right then and there because instead of getting the full impact of the smell I got mostly Sherlock; a combination of expensive body wash, poncy hair product and something else that was completely him.

Sherlock by this point was standing in the middle of the room, eyes darting everywhere as he turned his head. When he focused on me he jerked his chin in the direction of one of the bodies. I knew my cue.

I examined the bodies one by one. Since I was not going to touch or move the bodies I couldn't see all the wounds. What I saw was enough. By the time I stood up and took another look around the room I had a pretty good idea as to what I was going to say. Sherlock was currently examining the scimitar that was stuck in the wall. My movement alerted him and he looked at me questioningly.

"Where's the other body?" I asked Lestrade rather than acknowledging Sherlock's unasked question.

"What you see is what you get," he responded from the doorway.

"Hmph," Sherlock acknowledged the information with a grunt as his eyes went to a particularly large and sticky patch of blood. "Caused by the sword?" he asked.

"I'd have to see the nonexistent body but I would suspect so given the other three."

That remark earned me Sherlock's full attention. I belatedly realized he'd been asking about the other bodies rather than the missing one. I figured I'd better explain.

"Body number one," I indicated the body closest to the door, "was hit with the scimitar at least once; most likely by accident given the angle and depth of the cut. The fatal blow, however, was caused by a straight edged blade rather than a curved one so the scimitar is not the correct weapon. This is also true of body number two," I indicated the one in the middle of the room before looking down at the body nearest the scimitar stuck in the wall. "Now this fellow was dispatched by a strategic strike to the liver with a relatively short blade, eight to ten inches or so in length."

I looked around then. Lestrade was staring at me as if I had two heads but Sherlock was clearly integrating the information into his deductions.

"Any idea on the type of weapon?" he asked me.

I shrugged, "Medieval sword and dagger combination. Probably an early one since the blade was heavier and wider than normal. It was wielded by someone who knew how to use it. Those wounds were not made by just picking it up and flailing around. The blows were precisely placed and designed to kill."

"What the…" Lestrade sputtered, "How the hell do you know all that John?"

"Three words Greg; bored American Marines," I paused then added, "I've stitched up similar wounds although not as serious from sparring accidents. The Marines were good at it but whoever did this was an expert."

Sherlock was grinning.

"So we have a killer with a sword and dagger who ran off with a dead body leaving the room locked behind him?" Lestrade was sounding frustrated.

"There were only four people in the room," Sherlock stated, "You'll be able to verify with foot and fingerprints. It's obvious that they were going to film an execution," he waived his hand vaguely at the sheet/blanket pad set up and the mangled tripod. "The victim managed to get free, grab a weapon and proceeded to kill his captors before bleeding out over there. You can observe the indent of the body faintly in the carpet. Your victim was male, about your height and right handed. He was quite fit and as John indicated a master swordsman. I suggest that you pursue that angle. Look for a group or a dojo using medieval weaponry. One doesn't gain mastery of that sort of weapon without a lot of practice."

"Society for Creative Anachronism and reenactment groups might be a better place to start," I chimed in. "They teach that sort of stuff. If the guy was as good as it looks like then he'd be known."

Sherlock used my interjection to look at Lestrade intently.

"You figured out most of this already although you had the scimitar as the murder weapon and more people involved in the fight," his eyes narrowed slightly. What you need to know is who came and collected the victim's body, grabbed the camera and the sword, then locked the door from the inside."

"And for that matter how they locked the door from the inside!" Lestrade grumbled.

"That's obvious," Sherlock said offhandedly, "the bolt was thrown by a small mammal, probably a monkey, who got out of the room there."

Sherlock pointed at one of the many air vents near the ceiling that didn't have a grate or a register on it. He then walked over to the wall under the vent and peered at several smudges. A quick look at the carpet with his pocket magnifying glass completed his examination. He straightened clearly frustrated that the aforementioned small mammal had not left hair or a clear print to aid in identification.

He glanced around again then continued, "No, what makes this more interesting is the missing body. The body was removed relatively quickly given the indentations in the stains on the floor."

"What would someone want with a dead body?" Lestrade asked then realizing just who he was talking to, added, "besides you."

I could think of a variety of uses for a freshly dead body ranging from the prosaic to the bizarre some of which would require expeditious removal to avoid decomposition. I'd seen a lot of strange stuff whilst trailing along after Sherlock but I really couldn't imagine why someone would go to so much trouble to lock the door after removing the body. Given the neighborhood and the nature of the building odds were quite good that the crime scene would have only been discovered by chance. Judging from the setup of the other room our dead men had already been squatting in the building for a week or more without being discovered.

"Unimportant," Sherlock waived his hand as he moved over and squatted down next to the body midway between the door and the wall.

"Nothing as prosaic as an ID on these three?" I asked Lestrade.

"Nope. Not that we could find. We are still searching the rest of the building but I'm not holding my breath. Any assistance on that front would be appreciated."

Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement then stood and moved to the body closest to the door squatting again to examine the remains more closely. Lestrade and I watched until Sherlock made that little _hah_ noise which meant that he'd reached the end of a chain of reasoning. He stood up stretching a bit and settling his coat.

"This man is from the midlands originally. If you don't have his prints locally check Birmingham before running a countrywide search. I suspect you'll find a variety of assault charges and an old association one gang or another. There won't be anything recent though as he's moved up a notch or two in whatever criminal enterprise he was associated with. He's gone from being just muscle to something a bit higher on the food chain."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"Really," Sherlock scoffed, "even you can see the spot on his arm where he's had a tattoo removed. That level of removal requires laser treatment and is not cheap. Given the way it looks the last treatment was over six months ago. Add that to the state of his clothing and the newness of his trainers indicate that he's had an upturn in his finances over the last year. Now where else do you suggest would a midland's brawler from the council flats, look at his teeth, get the necessary funds? Did he win a lottery? No, it was more likely a promotion to something that requires a more presentable appearance as well as providing an increase in disposable income."

Lestrade looked a little sour at that but jotted down the pertinent information in his notebook.

"Now," Sherlock turned to look back at the other two bodies without pausing, "these two are much more interesting. Despite his size and musculature," Sherlock indicated the body in the middle of the room, "this gentleman spent an inordinate amount of time at a keyboard. Judging from his skin color and the design stamped on the back of the religious amulet around his neck he's originally from Sub-Saharan Africa but has spent at least the last seven years in a much colder climate. He practices a martial art for exercise, one of the kicking, striking variety, most likely a Karate variant, rather than grappling judging by his musculature. He also hasn't been at it very long or isn't very diligent judging by the level of bruising and calluses. He has spent some time recently in North America. That style and brand of shoe are not readily available here and expensive enough to warrant trying them on as opposed to mail order." Sherlock inclined his head at the final body across the room. "Expert fighter in several martial disciplines including one that focuses on a weapon, probably not a sword judging from the calluses again. Also has spent time in North America recently, clothing and watch, commonly carries a mobile in his right front trouser pocket but didn't have it on him otherwise you would have mentioned it earlier."

"That it?" Lestrade asked while still scribbling.

"Until I see the autopsy results," Sherlock responded. "Do send them along when you get them."

"You want to go over the rest of the building?" Lestrade asked closing his notebook.

"I doubt there is anything of import," Sherlock replied. "They were relatively smart. They didn't use any of the other rooms on this floor for fear of alerting someone that the building wasn't as vacant as it appeared. The offices overlooking the warehouse floor have windows visible from the street so they avoided them also. The main floor does not have any defensible space. This building doesn't have a bin but they disposed of their rubbish quite a few blocks away judging from the mud on the local's feet."

"Right," Lestrade grumbled, "if they were so smart how did whomever took the body find them or do you think our body snatchers are unrelated to those three?"

Sherlock shrugged, "It is an error to theorize without data Lestrade. You know my methods."

I in the meantime was edging around the discussion heading for the door into the hall. For some reason, probably bits and pieces of errant memory, the crime scene was making me feel uneasy.

"Well then," Sherlock said as I moved a bit closer to the hallway, "you don't need me anymore unless of course you find the lorry."

"What lorry?"

"The lorry that they used to transport their prisoner of course," Sherlock replied. "You surely don't think he walked here on his own?"

"But…"

"No trash on the loading dock but debris inside the building indicating that the roller door has been opened recently. The loading dock is high enough so that you wouldn't want to heave anything heavy up from either the ground or a boot ergo a lorry."

And, I thought to myself, a locked and barred side door that clearly hadn't been used in years. I had noticed it on the way in, probably at the same time Sherlock had been taking note of the loading area. By this time I was almost to the door but Sherlock beat me to it by whirling suddenly as soon as he finished speaking and striding into the hall.

He paused for a moment in the doorway to look over his shoulder and ask "Coming John?"

I was only too ready to grunt in agreement and trail off in his wake. This, of course, was why I found myself less than twenty minutes later moving the furniture in the sitting room of 221B whilst Sherlock was downstairs raiding Mrs. Hudson's broom closet.

"No not there John," Sherlock said from the doorway holding just the handle from the push broom that Mrs. Hudson used to sweep her back stoop. "Turn the sofa around and put the back in line with the edge of the fireplace."

I did as he said. He in turn propped the broom handle against the wall and then proceeded to clear the floor between the sofa and the door by the simple expedient of dumping most of the detritus onto the newly rearranged sofa. Judging from the amount of space he had cleared I had a good idea what he was doing especially when he grabbed the broom handle again and handed me an umbrella. He looked around one more time then snatched up the union jack pillow and deposited it on the hearth.

"Stand there." Sherlock indicated a spot to the right of the pillow. "Hold the umbrella in your right hand."

I obeyed as he sank to his knees on the pillow.

After a minor amount of fussing with the placement of the broom handle he looked up at me and said, "Take a swing at the back of my neck if you please."

I didn't really care for the images this exercise invoked but I did it anyway. Over the next forty-five minutes or so we ranged all over the cleared area thrusting, counter thrusting, swinging and blocking with our improvised weapons. By the time Sherlock called a halt I knew two things: one was that my shoulder was going to be extremely sore tomorrow and the other was that Sherlock had not got the information he had been looking for from the exercise.

I deposited the umbrella in the stand by the door then pulled my chair back to its usual position. I turned back to continue reassembling the sitting room only to be handed a bag of frozen lima beans.

"Sit," Sherlock nodded at my chair and to my surprise he started moving the furniture and placing articles back into their proper places.

"So, other than reconstructing the fight would you care to enlighten me as to what we were doing?" I asked.

Sherlock looked over from where he was replacing a couple of books that had been on the coffee table into the bookcase.

"Primarily the fight," he replied, "but there's something off with the angle of the wounds and the way the bodies were laying."

I had to smile. For once I was ahead of Sherlock.

"You are forgetting something," I said.

Sherlock stopped and raised an eyebrow.

"Two somethings actually," I continued as another thought occurred to me. "While your broom handle was the correct length it doesn't have the right weight to stand in for our missing weapon. You also didn't factor in the offhand dagger." I cocked my head at him, "I bet you learned epee at school. They are a lot lighter than the older weaponry and the rules are much different. Even saber would have helped much. When you are dealing with something that much heavier the forms are different or at least that's what I've been told."

"Hmph," Sherlock grunted as he turned back to his self-appointed task of straightening the room. "Your bored American Marines again I presume?"

"It was an interesting three months."

It didn't take long before the room was back to normal. Sherlock's behavior however was not. I fully expected him to lay on the sofa and then retreat to his mind palace to think. Instead he went to the kitchen and returned shortly with a cup of tea and a hot water bottle both of which he handed to me in exchange for the now not quite frozen veggies. He went back to the kitchen and returned with his own cup of tea. I couldn't help staring.

"Not enough data yet," he said in response to my unasked question. "This has all the hallmarks of being a long and complex case. It behooves me to pace myself especially in the early stages."

"Ah," I said not quite understanding. He had done similar things before but not ever at the commencement of a case. Usually he would consent, abet grudgingly, to slow down when the leads got few and far between and we were waiting for information but never before had he done so at such an early stage. What, I wondered, had convinced him to wait for the first influx of data rather than going out and attempting to wrest it by force from wherever it had been hidden. Once again Sherlock read my mind or maybe he deduced it from my face, the way I was sitting in my chair or some combination of both.

"By the pricking of my thumbs," was all he said in response to my unasked question.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Remember floor number conventions are different depending upon where you are. Since this is set in London I used the UK system. Whatever you call it there are 3 floors to this particular warehouse.


	3. Enemy Action?

**Title:** History Lesson

 **Disclaimer:** I own no rights, I make no profit.

* * *

 **Chapter 2 – Enemy Action?**

Morning in Q-Branch on a normal day was only differentiated from the middle of the night by the number of folks working in the bullpen. Of course this was different during high threat levels or important missions in different time zones but we'd been in so called _normal operations_ mode for a bit over a week. This was why I was standing at my work station teasing apart a particularly nasty little computer virus which had been caught by the firewall.

I was just about finished when the ambient noise level in the room suddenly dropped. That meant one of two things; either a member of management or a 00 on a post mission adrenaline high had entered the branch. I knew Mallory and Tanner were not in the building and 007 had returned late last night. I knew that none of other 00's were even in the same time zone so therefore I looked up from my coding.

I was surprised to observe my brother Mycroft sauntering across the branch floor umbrella, as always, in hand. One of these days I was going to have to steal it and see if it did indeed contain a blade in the shaft as I suspected it did. Given Mycroft's history and experience however it could just as well be a single shot pistol or even a rifle. I wouldn't be able to tell unless I got my hands on it. As he moved closer I got a better look at his face. He was worried and worse yet he was letting me see that he was worried. That meant the situation was, as John Watson liked say, _a bit not good_.

In my brother's wake I noticed a subtle exodus of unessential minions from the main room. Anyone who didn't absolutely have to be in the bullpen was finding an excuse to make themselves scarce. Those that remained seemed to all have sprouted earphones or headsets. One of the side effects of my kidnapping had been that most members of the branch now knew that Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes were my brothers. They also knew that if that particular familial connection was ever leaked Sherlock would deduce the source and Mycroft would rain down retribution. Of course that was only if I didn't figure it out first and enact my own revenge on the offending party.

The denizens of Q branch were anything but stupid. What you didn't hear you couldn't leak even inadvertently. All of which meant that by the time Mycroft reached my workstation we could have as private a conversation as one that occurred in my office. What remained to be seen was if the situation was high level enough to require additional security.

"Q," Mycroft acknowledged my title before he moved up onto the platform containing my workstation.

"Mr. Holmes," I replied just in case anyone happened to still be listening.

Mycroft placed a large yellow mailing envelope on my desk. He inclined his head at it meaning _The contents should explain themselves_.

I raised my eyebrows, looked puzzled and inquired mutely, _Why do you bring this to me?_

He sighed and his shoulders dropped slightly, _Because none of my people can deal with this._

I brushed my fingers lightly across my keyboard, _How important is this and how fast do you need it?_

He dropped his habitual mask and I could see his apprehension. He was concerned but was unsure just how worried he needed to be. He also had no clue as to the next action he needed to take or if any action at all was necessary. I had rarely in my life seen him this unsure. He schooled his face again.

I laced my hands together and rested my chin on my extended index fingers, _Can Sherlock help?_

He rolled his eyes slightly, _I'm not sure his talents are appropriate in this situation._

I glanced around the bullpen considering which missions were active and if any of them needed my complete attention.

Mycroft cleared his throat, _I'm not asking you to leave your agents in the lurch._

I smiled slightly, _As if I would for anything less than a national crisis._ Before he could respond I touched the envelope lightly. _I'll get on it and let you know what I find._

He nodded fractionally, _Thank you little brother._ Then he turned and strolled unhurriedly out of the branch.

I looked again at the unassuming envelope then decided to finish up what Mycroft had interrupted before looking at his problem. It didn't take me very long to determine that the virus author, who was already on our watch list, had made the jump from scrip-kiddie to journeyman hacker. I upped his threat level then on a hunch added a note to see if we could locate him. Well, I reminded myself, the hacker could be a her but statistically this type was more likely to be male so I paused and decided that I'd continue using the male pronoun until otherwise notified. If he kept going at this rate he'd be good enough to be dangerous in a year or so and I'd prefer to have _eyes on_ well before that happened. Who knows he might be a potential recruit as an asset, agent or even Q branch staffer. I also sent a note to Spider indicating that he needed to leak the virus parameters to one or more of the software security companies so that they could take precautions before this one ended up in wide circulation. Task complete I shutdown my work station, grabbed the envelope and headed for my office.

I opened my locked office door only to find a slightly battered 007 asleep on my sofa. 00's coming down off a mission, injured or not, tended to behave like wounded animals. They'd find a secure den and hide until they were fit, fit to live with or both. Lately that den seemed to be either in my vicinity or somewhere they knew I, and only I, could watch. I'm not quite sure when it had happened but sometime over the last year those most dangerous, paranoid and damaged group of assassins had decided _en masse_ that I meant both _safe_ and _home_.

Bond didn't even twitch as I quietly shut the door. If it had been anyone else he'd have been up and combat ready in a heartbeat or two. I took a quick glance at his recumbent form careful not to stare which would cause him to wake Judging from his muscle tone, breathing pattern and heart rate he was going to be out for at least another 3 hours. I moved normally to my desk, knowing that stealth would also trigger wakefulness, and started in on what Mycroft had given me.

An indeterminate amount of time later James Bond's voice asked, "Why are you messing with the V&A's security systems?"

I wasn't terribly surprised that Bond had recognized that I was working on a security system schematic. I was interested that he'd managed to recognize the particular museum solely from the floor plan. Then again this was Bond, a man who could identify a map of subterranean London with a single glance. God only knew what other strange bits of information he had stored in his brain.

"Because they had a break in a couple of days ago and some artifacts went missing," I replied.

"Isn't that a bit below your pay grade?"

"Not when the thieves had something that intermittently jammed security sensors and cameras selectively."

"Some of the gear you've designed does that."

"Our stuff don't produce this sort of result," I looked up at him and added, "and I don't know anyone else's that would act like this either."

"So how did they go in?" Bond asked.

I proceeded to show him the series of sensor and camera failures in sequence.

"Well it looks like they only knew the general location of what they were after," was Bond's initial comment on viewing the sequence. He paused for a moment then added, "If I knew that my target was in Room 62 I'd have gone this way." He indicated a path with his finger, "unless…"

I cocked my head at him. Bond was clearly seeing something that I had missed.

"Can you display by sensor type?" he asked.

Mycroft's people had superimposed the security schematics over the generic floorplan map of the museum. The resulting CAD file originally only had a few layers; cameras on one, sensors on another and the floor plan on the third. His people had helpfully linked the camera feeds and sensor error messages to appropriate icons on the map. After I'd reviewed all the files I'd spent most of the last few hours adding additional layers and cross referencing various notes and technical information to particular sensors and cameras.

"What ones do you want?"

"The unaffected motion sensors to start with."

A few clicks and the indicated sensors were highlighted in green.

"Do you have coverage areas mapped for those motion sensors?"

I hadn't done that yet but given the technical specifications available I could make an educated guess. It wasn't too hard to fill in the appropriate coverage area in a lighter green shading using a new layer of the map program. I started with the ones along the path that the thieves took.

"This is just a rough estimate," I said as I continued to add areas for motion sensors along the route Bond had indicated. "If I really want to be accurate I'd need to have someone go determine the exact coverage of each sensor and figure out if there are any obscuring artifacts or displays."

"Hmmm," Bond was intently looking at the display over my shoulder. "What do you want to bet that there is something obscuring the sensors here, here, and here?"

I looked where he had indicated.

"I wouldn't take that bet."

It only took a few clicks to bring up the camera feed I had for one of the indicated rooms. I froze the picture before the camera feed had started to be disrupted. Sure enough there was a large armoire with a decorative top blocking part of the motion sensor's field of view.

"And here?" Bond pointed at a room on his preferred path.

It took a little searching. I had all of the camera feeds for the entire museum within an hour or so of the event but Mycroft's people had only linked the video from cameras that had been jammed. When I finally located it the result was a clear line of sight for the motion detector.

"I retract my initial statement," Bond said flatly. "They knew exactly where they were going and had an intimate knowledge of the security in place. This is your level of intel Q."

He was right. This was the detail that I liked to give the 00's if it was available and we had time to compile it. Whomever it was had taken the most direct path to room 62 while avoiding all the motion sensors with a clear field of view.

"So whatever technology they had doesn't work on motion sensors. Interesting."

My brain was running in circles attempting to ferret out a design with as limited a range as indicated by the failures which worked well on cameras, door and cabinet sensors but not motion detectors. As I was thinking Bond reached around me and commandeered the mouse. I started to move out of his way only to find that he'd neatly hedged me in, one hand resting on the edge of the desk while he worked the computer with the other hand. I wasn't quite sure what to do but my body reflexively relaxed into the almost embrace. It seemed that subconsciously I associated 007 with security. Now wasn't that interesting. I shouldn't have been surprised given the fact that 007 had taken it upon himself to be part of not only my rescue but also my recovery from the kidnapping incident _._

Bond stopped looking at sensor specifications and moved back. For some strange reason I felt a little disappointed.

"If you exclude the cameras," he remarked, "the only sensor that couldn't be overcome with something as simple as a magnet was the one on the outside door."

I had a thought and brought up the repair history of that sensor. As I had remembered, that sensor had been swapped out the very next day after the break-in due to failure to reset properly.

"Thank you 007."

"So what are you going to investigate next?" he asked.

"I'm going to link all the camera feeds from the rooms next to the path they used and see if there is anything to see."

I half expected Bond to ask why I would be doing such menial work as opposed to assigning it to one of my minions. The answer, of course, would have been security. The real answer was that I wasn't comfortable given Mycroft's demeanor with letting this information out of my direct control.

"Ah," Bond said instead, "Shadows, reflections in surfaces and the like."

"If I'm lucky I might catch a reflection which I can digitally enhance," I replied.

"I'll leave you to that."

Bond stretched then moved to the sofa reaching down to grab something on the floor. At that point I realized the man was barefoot lacking even socks. For some strange reason it struck me as even more intimate than applying plasters or bandages to his half-naked form; a task which I had performed more than once. I blushed and was thankful for the dim light in my office. It might just hide my reaction. Bond sauntered toward the door, detouring slightly to run a finger across the back of my neck. I heard him chuckle under his breath. Crap. I'd been caught. There was nothing else I could do. I turned my full attention to the task at hand.

"Don't work too hard Q," his voice held a hint of a smile as he exited.

A bit later as I finished looking at a camera feed I grabbed my mug and took a sip. Perfect. I made a mental note to figure out which of my staff had managed to get my tea exactly right. That was when my brain reminded me of my current location. I was in my office, working on a classified project. Tea should not have appeared.

I stared at the mug in my hand and noticed that there was a plate on my desk. From the pattern of crumbs it had held a sandwich. Not only that, the sandwich had been cut up into bite-sized pieces. I didn't recall having eaten anything. I must have done so since there were crumbs on my jumper. I looked at the time on my computer screen. 6 hours had elapsed since Mycroft had first walked into the branch. So where the heck had the tea and sandwich come from?

There was a low chuckle and I turned. James Bond was again sitting on my sofa with one hand on my e-reader. He looked rather pleased with himself. The expression on my face must have been interesting because the chuckle gave way to a laugh.

"What?"

Bond smiled, "It was a good thing I was off mission. The minions told me that when you dive into a project like that you tend to forget necessary things like eating and sleeping. When you do so in your office they can't even hydrate you properly. They get worried."

"And what else did my staff tell you?"

"Nothing much, they merely expressed the opinion that it was almost impossible to get you to eat when you were _in the zone_ so to speak." Bond looked thoughtful, "I'll have to let them know that it's a matter of size and placement. I may not be here the next time you do this."

I wasn't sure how to respond to that statement so I said the first thing that popped into my head.

"If you think I'm bad you should see Sherlock. He practically goes catatonic when he is thinking hard."

"I'm aware," Bond chuckled. "You at least retain a modicum of peripheral awareness. If I put a cup of tea or finger food within your reach you tend to eat and drink automatically. That doesn't even mention the fact that your normal modus-operandi is to multitask rather than fully focus on anything specific. It's what makes you so effective on mission coms."

Once again I wasn't sure how exactly to respond. Luckily I didn't have to.

"You find anything? You were making frustrated noises under your breath when I left to refill your tea."

"Nothing much," I admitted. "The camera in 62 died before the outside door was breached. It is the only camera that never came back on line. The damage looked like something caused by a power surge but a surge strong enough to do that amount of damage would have taken out everything in the entire building. I'll need to take a look at the damage physically to see if there is anything else."

"And?"

"There was a light source in room 62 just after the camera fried. It started low got brighter over several minutes and then was steady until the thieves reached the room."

"You think something was left in the room to cause the light and the camera failure?"

"Not sure. I'm going to see if I can match the spectrum to see if it was something special or just an incandescent bulb," I replied.

"Given the professionalism so far I doubt you are going to find anything special," Bond commented. "I bet the light was nothing more than a signal. I've done that before myself. A motion sensor and a time delay. Security goes by triggering the sensor and 2 minutes later a light turns on that I can see from outside. I'd done my homework and knew the guard wouldn't be back on that side of the complex for at least 45 minutes. Easy in, easy out."

In all probability Bond was correct. In fact I could jury rig a rather simple system which would do just that with commonly available consumer products. The whole thing would be as small as a stapler and plug into a wall outlet.

"Hm," I grunted and nodded. "I think you are correct they were professionals who had done their homework. They were very aware of not only the limits of the technology but also the locations of cameras and sensors in all the adjoining rooms. I didn't find anything in reflective surfaces or even off the high gloss furniture. The only thing I've found so far was a flash of something off a silver and crystal vase. I was just about to enhance it when I became distracted," I waived my tea at him and took another sip.

"So let's see it," said Bond standing up.

I turned back to my computer and brought up the appropriate set of frames I'd isolated. I fiddled with the images a bit with no luck. There was nothing but 5 or so seconds of a bright green blur.

Bond said sarcastically, "Well that's helpful."

I nodded in agreement.

"If you didn't have that smear of green as part of a digital image I'd put it up as a concussion artifact," he continued.

"Excuse me?"

"Remember the Marrakesh mission when I showed up at your flat?"

I remembered alright. Bond had been injured and I'd been retrieving the first aid kit when my hallucination had shown up. I'd first seen the blob that initially looked somewhat like a rabbit when I'd been kidnapped by my ex-boyfriend from uni. I'd been drugged off my arse at the time and given that the rabbit shaped blob had morphed into a very naked male fairy I'd chalked it up to a drug artifact. I'd never told anyone but I'd seen it a number of times since; sometimes as just a flash of green, others times as the vaguely rabbit like shape but never again as the fairy. Given the propensity of some narcotics to linger in fat cells I had figured that it was just after effects of the drugs especially since the frequency had declined precipitously over time. In fact, after the Marrakesh mission was the last time I'd seen it and also the first time I'd questioned whether it really was a hallucination. The reason? Bond had joked that unless I'd spilled paint that he most likely had a concussion because he was seeing green blobs around the flat. Now that Bond had mentioned the incident I realized that the green blur reflected off the vase was the exact same shade as my hallucination.

"Interesting," I replied thinking furiously.

I'd done some research and investigation since that time and not come up with much. Most of what I'd found was medical or some sort of synesthesia both of which I'd ruled out due to Bond's observation. The other alternative had been tied up in new-age paranormal psudo-science. I'd kept a set of search parameters running on the internet to see if anyone else had a similar experience but nothing even remotely comparable had turned up. Just then I remembered something else.

"You know," I remarked, "that's also very similar in color to the time we had a catastrophic camera failure in lab 6. I wonder if it's an artifact of particular electrical components shorting out?"

Bond snorted, "Not unless my head was shorting out that time." He shook his head and added jokingly echoing part of the old intelligence analyst's maximum, "Well between my concussion and your camera failure officially we should label that green blur as a coincidence!"

No Mr. Bond, I thought to myself. If you add in my hallucinations it's clearly _enemy action_.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Not dead! As is my custom I'm writing on later chapters and when I finish I go back and post an earlier one. Unfortunately Sherlock sat down on me and proceeded to veto every idea my muse put forward alternatively saying "no," "boring" and occasionally "idiot." Fortunately John eventually intervened and allowed my muse to get another chapter typed out.


	4. Rapiers, Writing Desks, and Ravens

**Title:** History Lesson

 **Disclaimer:** I own no rights, I make no profit.

* * *

 **Chapter 3 – Rapiers, Writing Desks and Ravens.**

"John. John. Wake up!"

I reluctantly opened my eyes to see a fully dressed Sherlock practically vibrating in my bedroom doorway. I had known that his resolve to _wait for more data_ was not going to last but I had hoped that I could make a bit of a dent in my sleep deficit before it fell to his ravenous intellect. At least he hadn't tried to wake me up by shaking me this time. I suppose ending up face down on the floor in a subdue hold when trying to rouse your flat mate out of a nightmare would tend to make someone cautious about waking said flat mate from a deep sleep. Of course nothing was that simple with Sherlock. No, as near as I could tell Sherlock had been observing me for quite a while now and determining exactly which method of waking me would work in which situations and to what extent. He'd become rather adept at it and I suspected he had a spreadsheet somewhere.

"I'm awake," I grumbled.

"Good!" He whirled in the doorway, "We need to be out of here in less than 20 minutes to make our meeting."

Wonderful. I grabbed my clothes and headed for the bathroom absently wondering why I put up with such demands. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I turned on the shower. From the look on my face, the stirring of my blood and that condition common to most males over puberty in the morning I knew exactly why I put up with vagaries of my mad flat mate. The game was afoot and there was no way I was going to let his genius shine without proper support and appreciation.

Less than 15 minutes later I was showered, dressed and heading into the sitting room. Sherlock already had his coat on. The minute he heard my steps he headed for the door, grabbing my jacket from the peg and tossing it in my direction. I shrugged into it then was down the stairs chasing after him. By the time I had locked the door, making sure the brass knocker was properly askew, I fully expected Sherlock to have flagged down a cab. What I found instead was one of the girls from Speedy's holding a to-go cup and a bag. She handed them to me and correctly interpreting my look of surprise jerked her head in Sherlock's direction. I stammered my thanks and found myself entering the cab that Sherlock had summoned seemingly by magic at that very moment. Sherlock gave an address somewhere in Kensington and we were off.

I looked at the cup which clearly contained tea and the bag which from the smell had a warm pastry in it then at Sherlock. That was twice in as many days. Who, I wondered, had replaced my colleague with some strange caring doppelganger.

Sherlock looked back at me and said dryly, "Your borborygmi can be distracting and the place we are heading has neither decent tea nor pastries so I suggest you eat and drink before we get there."

Reassured that all was right with the world I wolfed down the pastry and drank the tea finishing just as we arrived at our destination. I paid, as usual, then followed Sherlock down the block, around a corner and into a Starbucks.

Sherlock glanced around and muttered "late" under his breath.

Just then a table opened up so I nudged him in that direction. He sighed and sat down. I went around to sit in the other chair and spotted someone I had not expected. It was Rachael, one of Mycroft's people, who had tailed me on and off while Sherlock had been off playing dead. She and her partner Tim had been two of my more obvious shadows on and off for almost a year. It was kind of strange seeing her, apparently off duty, reading a paper in a coffee shop. I guess secret service types had lives too. I snagged a third chair for whomever Sherlock was meeting and sat down.

We didn't have to wait long until we were interrupted by a rather rumpled looking older fellow in a tweed jacket who walked over and said, "Let me get my order and I'll be at your disposal," to Sherlock.

He obviously was a regular since he didn't join the queue but simply went up to the pick-up area and was handed a cup that had been waiting for him. He came back over and sat down.

"The pleasures of online ordering," he said amicably, nodding at his cup. "So what can I do for you today Mr. Holmes?"

What followed was 20 minutes of very specific questions asked by Sherlock about medieval swords and daggers. He received a variety of highly technical answers, including a detailed discussion of the differences between a sword and a rapier, from the man whom I rather quickly gathered was the curator of the medieval weaponry collection at the Victoria and Albert Museum.

Finally Sherlock seemed to run out of questions and the man sighed, "I suppose it won't do me any good to ask."

Sherlock merely gave him a look.

"Ah well," he looked at me for the first time then, "it's just been that kind of a week. Everyone asks questions and no one tells me anything."

Sherlock's gaze sharpened at that remark, "What exactly was stolen?"

"An unremarkable sword and dagger set. They weren't that valuable with no historical providence to speak of. A donation by the estate of Lord Mablethorp from North Wales. Upon his death some 25 years ago the manor house was converted to regency era décor pursuant to an agreement with the National Trust and we acquired a whole bunch of medieval artifacts that just didn't fit."

"Tell me more," said Sherlock.

The man glanced around, "I've probably said more than I should. They made me sign something that put the entire matter under the official secrets act."

What? Something caught my eye behind Sherlock's expert and I realized that I was looking at Tim, Rachael's partner, who was just picking up his order. I reassessed my initial conclusion of _not working_ and stepped on Sherlock's toes under the table before he could ask anything else. He looked at me annoyed until I stepped on his toes twice and glanced at each of my former shadows in turn.

"Well thank you much for your help," Sherlock said standing, "I may get back to you with some specific measurements once the autopsy is complete. Come on John."

"Happy to help as always," said the curator who joined me in standing. "Nice meeting you Dr. Watson," he added despite the fact that we hadn't been introduced and I had no clue as to the man's name.

We exited the coffee shop and Sherlock headed across the street and took off down the pavement at a good clip. Half way down the block he suddenly turned, coat flaring dramatically, and darted into an alley way. I followed only to stop short as I almost crashed into Sherlock who was standing just inside the mouth of the alley with a clear view of the coffee shop. I scuttled in behind him and turned to look. Rachael had just exited. She looked around and then followed the curator.

Sherlock hummed under his breath then looked at me and said, "Mycroft's."

It wasn't a question.

I must be getting better at following his train of deductions because I just replied, "They were when I last saw them just before you returned."

"While the intelligence agencies often poach from each other, my brother steals his people from every government agency and inter-department transfers are generally singles not teams. If they do entice a team to change branches they rarely keep them together as a unit," Sherlock explained without prompting. "That doesn't even mention my brother's propensity to refuse to let competent people go unless he absolutely is required to do so; ergo they are still Mycroft's."

We waited until Tim exited the Starbucks some five or so minutes later. He too ambled off in the same direction as Rachael and the curator. I stared after him remembering all the times the two of them had revealed their presence, most likely on orders, while Sherlock had been dead. I thought at the time it had been a power play. A not so subtle reminder that big brother was still watching. I knew now that Tim and Rachael had merely been the front of a full protection detail as requested by Sherlock and implemented by Mycroft with the sole purpose of keeping the remnants of Moriarty's empire from taking their frustration regarding the demise of their leader out on me.

Sherlock bumped me lightly with his shoulder interrupting my reverie. I hadn't realized until just then how close we had been standing together in the alleyway. With a slight inclination of his head he indicated that we should continue down the street although at quite a bit slower pace than previously. It only took him a block or so before he had decided upon his next course of action.

"I'd like to know why my brother is so interested in Mr. Owen and what appears at first glance to be a garden variety theft at the V and A. We won't be able to get anything out of the museum staff and the Yard will have been removed from the case." He raised his hand and flagged a taxi. "Thus we need to go and ask. Not that he'll tell us anything but his reactions should give me enough to deduce what is going on."

I marveled at my flat mate as he got into the cab. For a man who professed to have few friends and fewer still about whom he cared he was awfully protective of his _sources_ and _contacts_. It didn't matter if they were the homeless network, the self-named Baker Street Irregulars, or more professional sources of information the fact that Mycroft was in some manner interfering with one of them bothered him greatly.

I expected Sherlock to give the address of the Diogenes Club but he surprised me by rattling off an address that was near Whitehall. Interesting, we apparently were going to go beard the lion in his official den.

It wasn't as hard as I expected. No subterfuge was required. Sherlock strode confidently into a gaggle of nondescript buildings containing generic government offices going directly to a particular one that looked no different than any of its brethren. Once there he ignored the receptionist and headed straight through an unmarked door into an open floorplan office filled with desks and office workers. The receptionist had trailed us, squawking something about security only to shut up suddenly when a white haired gentleman got up from his desk and stepped in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock looked the man up and down then stated, "He's due in less than 10 minutes. We'll wait."

"Very well Mr. Holmes," the man replied while stepping aside and gesturing in the direction of another unmarked door. "Thank you very much Bethany," the man added as he turned to trail behind Sherlock and I as we headed in the indicated direction. Through the door and down a short hallway we went ignoring side offices heading toward what clearly was the unmarked Sanctum Sanctorum of this bit of bureaucracy.

I don't quite know what I expected from Mycroft's official office; probably wood paneling, leather wing back chairs and a huge mahogany desk. That wasn't what I got. Instead there was relatively generic, modern style office furniture. There were only a very few clues that this was not just your average office. The desk was slightly larger than normal and all of the pieces looked a bit higher quality than one would expect in a simple government office but what really gave the show away was the high tech desk chair which Sherlock proceed to commandeer.

There was also a bookcase full of nice looking volumes. Intrigued I went over to look. Mostly history, some biography, a couple reference works, and a few fiction offerings. I spotted a set of Raymond Chandler stories and even a John Le Carré novel in the mix.

Sherlock, who had just finished fussing with his mobile, noticed my interest and commented, "The shelf at eye level is the important one. The books are changed depending upon the person he is meeting and the impression he wants to project. The shelf is currently set in the _generic bureaucrat_ version."

I went back to my perusing of titles. Sherlock was right as usual. Judging by the middle bookshelf this was the office of some mid-level bureaucrat. I was just about to make a comment about it when the door open and Mycroft walked in.

"To what do I owe the pleasure brother dear?"

Sherlock didn't bother with pleasantries. "I'm curious as to why your office is heading up the investigation into the theft of some rather unremarkable weaponry from the V and A. It's a bit out of your normal remit."

Mycroft shut the door and then strolled over to the window without saying anything. Sherlock sat bolt upright in the chair.

"The appropriate response," Mycroft said without turning around, "would be to tell you it's classified."

I really must be better at reading the nuances of Holmsian behavior. I could tell that Mycroft was uncomfortable or uneasy with something. It was highly reminiscent of when Sherlock thought there was a connection between two or more crimes but he didn't have anything concrete enough to deduce the relationship. He had likened it once to attempting to deduce the picture in the middle of a jigsaw puzzle from a handful of disparate edge pieces. You could only get a general idea of the type of picture not anything specific enough to make anything other than a moderately educated guess.

"However," Mycroft continued, "given Lestrade's case and your consultation with Mr. Owen I suspect that any attempt I might make would require far more effort and resources than I am willing to commit at this time."

"And most likely be futile as well," Sherlock replied.

Mycroft turned and glared at him. The unsaid statement was that if Mycroft really wanted to keep something classified there would be a sudden cold snap in hell before Sherlock would ever find out.

Sherlock's shrug was just as non-vocally eloquent; _we will have to test that sometime_.

I figured I'd better say something before the two of them went completely nonverbal on me but luckily I wasn't required to do so.

"Be that as it may," Mycroft continued, "Since Lestrade's alleged terrorists were potentially murdered with a medieval weapon and that my office's investigations involve missing medieval weaponry the two cases will I suspect at some point overlap." He sighed, "Much as it pains me dear brother I suppose I will need to include you and Dr. Watson as consultants on this."

He moved toward his desk only to stop short as if for the first time noticing that Sherlock was sitting in his chair. I was even more surprised when Sherlock vacated it without anything being said. This looked like it might take a while so I sat down in one of the visitor chairs. Sherlock simply took the other as Mycroft reclaimed his desk.

"I have recently been made aware of some ultra-top-secret protocols regarding my office which date from the reign of Queen Victoria. They involve the location of certain items of what normally might be considered memorabilia. The items are not historically significant, not terribly valuable but if they go missing this office is informed and is directed to take _appropriate precautions for the preservation of the realm_."

"So what exactly does that mean?" I asked.

"The protocols do not specify any particular actions, however, each time one or more of the items have been reported as missing events which are historically significant in our national history seem to occur shortly thereafter. The last time these particular items disappeared was just before the initial German attacks on London during World War II."

"Causation or mere concurrence?" Sherlock mused aloud.

"That indeed is the question. I have raised the threat level in an abundance of caution."

Sherlock refrained from making a derisive comment to that statement and I looked between the two brothers in surprise. I had noticed a shift in their relations starting when Sherlock came back from his hiatus. Things had thawed considerably after their youngest sibling, Quentin, had been kidnapped and rescued. Their banter had gone from having the vicious sarcastic overtones I had noted when I first had met Mycroft to something more akin to sibling teasing. Now Mycroft was being down right loquacious and forthright in sharing information and Sherlock was abstaining from commenting on the rarity of the occasion. All of this indicated that Sherlock had picked up on something in his brother's behavior or mannerisms which meant that whatever was going on had a high potential to be not only serious but highly important.

"Protocols generally define a series of actions," Sherlock stated cocking his head at Mycroft.

"The other action specified is: _Notify the Historian_. My people have yet to find anyone with such a title in the Government or references to such a title elsewhere."

"Have you asked…," Sherlock didn't get to finish before Mycroft interrupted.

"He is working on the malfunctions of the security system at present in an attempt to get more information about the theft."

Sherlock bristled at that, "And you didn't think to call me?"

"Even you brother dear would have a hard time finding physical evidence in areas that had been traipsed through by the great unwashed masses for a little over two days and been thoroughly wiped down at least once."

Once again Sherlock picked up on something I had missed.

"Legwork? You?"

"Occasionally it is necessary," Mycroft's face twitched in what I assumed would have been a disgusted grimace in anyone else.

At this point there was a tap at the door and Mycroft's drop dead gorgeous P.A., whom I inevitably thought of as Not-Anthea, entered without waiting for an acknowledgement. Mycroft's eyebrows flew up and Sherlock's gaze sharpened.

"You requested immediate notification Sir," she said.

Mycroft sighed then indicated Sherlock and myself, "I have engaged my brother and his blogger to consult on the present matter."

His assistant still seemed reluctant to say anything more but Sherlock filled the silence for her, "So what other ancient protocol has been activated now?" he asked.

She glanced at Mycroft and apparently getting some sort of confirmation stated, "Bran has been reported as AWOL Sir."

It doesn't happen very often with Sherlock and I'd never seen it before with Mycroft but both Holmes brothers wore identical blank expressions. It wasn't even the patented Holmesian _I don't understand the popular culture reference_ stare. This was clearly the genius equivalent of _What the f*** are you talking about_?

"One of the Tower Raven's sir," Not-Anthea helpfully supplied.

Mycroft blinked slowly. Sherlock turned to look at him.

"This office is required to be notified when something like this happens," she explained. "According to the file the last time was just before you took over this office. Muinin took an unscheduled five day holiday to Greenwich. The previous incident was in 1981 when Grog deserted."

"Deserted?" I asked.

"All the Tower Ravens are enlisted as members of Her Majesty's forces and as such are subject to many of the same rules and regulations. In fact they can, and have in the past, been dismissed for _conduct unbecoming._ "

I hadn't known that. I did, however, know at least one thing about the Tower Ravens.

"Their wings are clipped so how did he get out?" I asked.

I was surprised that neither of the Holmes brothers had jumped in yet. I suspected that Sherlock was as usual just letting me ask the obvious questions before spouting a stream of deductions. I didn't know about Mycroft.

"They only clip the flight feathers on one side," Not-Anthea explained. "They can glide and fly for short distances. Bran, by all reports, was spotted on the wall late yesterday. He didn't appear for his evening feeding, which occasionally occurs, but he then didn't appear for this morning's feeding. The Raven Master notified the appropriate authorities, including us. I took the liberty of setting a team on the CCTV feeds. So far we have discovered that Bran has made use of a variety of the area's public transit resources but he, like you," She inclined her head in Sherlock's direction, "seems to prefer cabs."

Sherlock snorted and levered himself out of his chair, "We'll show ourselves out," he smirked at Mycroft, "and leave you to tracking errant Ravens and locating the current holder of a job title that doesn't exist."

Mycroft didn't deign to reply to that but the look on his face was priceless.


	5. Welcome to the Dark Ages

**Title:** History Lesson

 **Disclaimer:** I own no rights, I make no profit.

* * *

 **Chapter 4 – Welcome to the Dark Ages**

I woke up suddenly and for a moment was completely disoriented. Surprisingly it was a scent, no, more like a series of scents, that grounded my spinning brain. The body-wash from the MI-6 gym combined with Bond's aftershave and Shirley's fabric softener told me I was on the couch in my office covered with the throw that lived on its back except for the occasional times R took it home to launder.

So how did I end up in this particular position?

The last thing I remembered was being rather annoyed. I had spent over 10 hours messing with the V&A data six ways from center only to get a smear of green partially reflected in a variety of surfaces. That was on top of coming off a series of back to back 00 missions which required my presence to hack a specific server in coordination with 006's particular brand of destruction and to turn off a security system for 004. Neither of those tasks had been delegable and due to the locations of the agents a set time for the task could not be predetermined. All of which meant I'd just spent the last 48 hours cooped up in MI 6 with minimal rest.

I remembered drafting a note to Mycroft regarding my progress. It really was more an explanation of lack of progress than anything else. I'd tweaked one of my search programs to see if I could find something matching that particular shade of green limiting it to Great Britain and avoiding sites that I knew would generate extraneous hits such as DeivantArt. I'd also requested the damaged camera from room 62 along with one of the intermittently failed cameras be provided only to be told that they wouldn't arrive until tomorrow mid-morning at the earliest. How long does it take to put something in a box and have someone walk it to Vauxhall Cross?

I had taken my glasses off and put my head down on my desk for just a moment intending to take a cat nap. It was at that point things became rather fuzzy. I vaguely remembered a familiar voice say _Ah so we are doing this again_ in a rather amused tone. Then there was a floating sensation followed shortly thereafter by warmth and the same voice saying softly to someone else _No I don't think he's going to let go. No problem. I'll extricate myself in a bit._

Clearly someone had found me sleeping and managed to move me without completely waking me up. The number of people who could accomplish that particular feat were few and far between. Their number had shrunk even more after my kidnapping. Of that elite group there were only two currently in the building and Moneypenny wouldn't have picked me up, instead she would have sleepwalked me to the sofa. That left only one real alternative, Bond.

As if the thought had conjured him, my office door opened and the man himself slipped inside. He was carrying a mug, coffee by the smell, which he placed on the desk presumably in preparation for settling into my chair. He glanced in my direction and stopped moving. I'm not quite sure how but he somehow had determined I was awake.

"Good morning, Q," he said as he snagged his mug off the desk without siting down.

I sat up and felt around for my glasses. They were where I normally left them when napping on the couch. I slipped them on and the blur that was Bond resolved into focus.

"What," I asked, "are you still doing here?"

Bond was technically on post mission leave. The fact that he'd slept in my office then stayed while I worked on the initial stages of Mycroft's request was unusual but not out of character. What was I bit strange was that he was still around at, I glanced at the clock, zero two hundred. Normal after mission behavior would have been for him to sleep a bit then leave in search of something alcoholic.

"Close protection detail," Bond interrupted my thoughts by answering.

"What?"

"Orders came down mid-day yesterday a bit after you had started chasing that greenish reflection."

"Any idea why?"

Given the current intelligence stream I couldn't think of any reason why the government threat levels would be ramped up like that. An increase in certain types chatter might do it but then someone would have disturbed me in an attempt to get more specific intel.

Once again Bond's response interrupted my musing, "Over abundance of caution I was told. Apparently some World War era protocols which have not been rescinded have been triggered. The Home Office raised the overall general threat level and put most of the intelligence community on high alert until they can figure out why those protocols exist and if they are still valid."

Well that explained the close protection detail. What remained in question was why would Mycroft, and I knew it had to have been Mycroft, order the high alert on such a flimsy rational?

"Your branch and Intentions have shifted to full coverage shifts," Bond continued. "The subsidiary orders are causing a bit of frustration since there has been no identification of a threat or even a potential threat. The only instructions have been to watch out for things that are _a bit bizarre_."

I blinked at him, "So we are looking for signs of the apocalypse I presume?"

"They are especially interested strange chatter from the usual places that doesn't appear to relate to anything else."

"Lovely," I rolled my eyes. "The last time we had instructions like that Intentions ended up half analyzing the plot line to a prototype video game. We were very lucky that one of the engineers was an alpha tester."

I swung my feet to the floor to head for my computer.

"I suppose I'll need to get a list started of everything we know is in alpha release or better to avoid that problem," I said.

Bond stepped in front of me blocking my access.

"R already did that," he informed me. "You need food and more sleep, not necessarily in that order. You are not scheduled in the rotation until 1600 so we just need to determine where exactly you are going to get those things."

I craned my neck to look up at him thinking that I could crash in the suite of safe rooms that we had in the building.

"Nope," Bond seemingly read my mind, "Only one executive sleeping in the building at a time. M is using the safe rooms with Moneypenny on protection detail."

"Tanner?"

"003 made it back was done with debrief around 23:30. He took Tanner to one of the safe houses. The other department heads were assigned A-list agents and they are all bunking with them," Bond informed me.

"Leaving me with you."

Bond smiled, "At M's direct order no less."

"Lovely," I said again.

"As if I wasn't your favorite," Bond grinned unrepentantly.

I looked around, spotted my shoes and started putting them on.

"So where are you going to stash me?"

"You have a choice, safe house or my flat. I will however tell you that the food and the thread count on the sheets will be better at the latter than the former," Bond rumbled amusedly as he stepped back.

I stood.

"Your flat then," I decided knowing full well the quality, or more precisely the lack thereof, of safe house accommodations.

Bond nodded most likely having anticipated my decision, "I had R raid your locker for additional clothing so all you need is to grab your coat and _go-bag_."

I blinked at Bond again. I hadn't known that anyone knew about that.

Early on in my career at MI 6 I had determined that the standard agent's practice of having a bag with the essentials all packed and stashed somewhere such that you could just grab and go was a good idea. As I'd worked my way up the hierarchy I'd placed such _go-bags_ not only in my flat but also in a couple of places around the building. When I became Q that number had increased substantially. Of course what I considered essential was a little different from most of the agents however they all did include a burn mobile, ID, funds and an _untracable_ firearm.

Once again Bond seemed to read my mind and answer a question I hadn't asked aloud.

"I found the one that's stashed near your emergency exit several months ago and thought it was a good idea," Bond cocked his head at me, "and then I saw the one in here, the one in the armoire in Moneypenny's office, as well as the one in your lab."

I shrugged and tried to look apologetic. At least he hadn't found out about the…

"Which doesn't even mention the gym, the carpark, the firing range and the server room," Bond continued.

Damn.

"Given your recent level of paranoia, which I think is somewhat justified I might add, I suspect I missed a few."

For some reason it made me feel a bit better that Bond wasn't judging me for being prepared. Then it sunk in that he was asking me to take a bag along to his flat even though he'd just told me that the alert was merely an _overabundance of caution_. I raised an eyebrow at him.

"You'll sleep better," he said in a matter of fact tone.

There was indeed something to be said for having someone who knew you well on close protection detail. It saved a lot of time in explanation. I looked around my office grabbed my phone, my tablet, and appropriate chargers and cords adding them to the _go-bag_. Less than a minute later I was shrugging on my coat and we were heading out.

I was a little surprised when we reached the car park that we didn't take Bond's Aston-Martin. Instead we grabbed one of the non-descript pool cars. We also didn't end up driving directly to Bond's flat. Instead Bond took us on a 45 minute drive that was clearly meant to flush out any tailing vehicles. Apparently satisfied that we were not being pursued Bond finally headed in the general direction of his abode. Once again I was surprised when we didn't end up in the car park of Bond's building but one on an adjacent street. From there we wound our way through several allegedly locked access doors, across an alley, around some bins and finally into another car park which I recognized as belonging to Bond's building only because I spotted Trevelyan's motor bike parked in a corner.

When we hit the flat Bond checked all the rooms one by one including the loo. Despite his earlier assurances I could see that he was taking this alert very seriously. Finally Bond relaxed and took off his coat and suit jacket leaving him in shirt sleeves and shoulder holster.

"Sleep or food first Quartermaster?" he asked.

I took a quick self-assessment. I'd managed to eat, thanks to Bond providing bite-sized snacks while I had been working, so sleep was the more urgent priority.

"Bed," Bond pointed, "I'll be on the couch."

Apparently I hadn't responded fast enough. I started to protest but he just glared and I knew that this was an argument which I wouldn't win. There was nothing for it but to go to the bedroom, strip down and climb into what was one of the more obscenely comfortable beds in which I'd ever had the occasion to sleep.

When I awoke next it was near noon judging by the light. That meant I could afford to lay about at least until either my bladder or my stomach prompted me to move. I snuggled into the bedding preparing to see if I could doze off again. Alas, that was not to be.

No sooner than I had become comfortable Bond burst into the room, gun drawn, saying "Get dressed, get your gear, we've been compromised!"

I sat up and looked at him. He was as ruffled as I'd ever seen him off mission; rumpled clothes, messy hair and a rather spooked expression. It was the latter that concerned me the most. This was James Bond, the epitome of unflappability even in the most extreme circumstances. Whatever had disconcerted him to this extent must be serious. Without thinking I slipped into mission mode.

"Site Rep" I snapped as I bailed out of the bed and started tugging on my clothes.

"Someone managed to access the flat without waking me up."

Now that was surprising. Bond in no way was a heavy sleeper and even off mission he was somehow aware of most everything in his vicinity. On mission, I knew he considered this protection detail to be on mission, he was hyper alert. Even cat-napping the merest hint of something out of the ordinary and he'd be wide awake pointing a gun at whatever it was. I'd seen him do it on multiple occasions.

"Security system?"

"Not engaged. I'm better," he paused, "at least I thought I was better."

I was almost dressed.

"How fast do we need to move?"

"I didn't find anything in the flat and there are no hostiles that I can see from the windows. I don't think we need to move immediately but the faster the better."

I rummaged around in my bag.

"I need to check for bugs and trackers before we leave," I said as I located the piece of gear I needed. "What tipped you off that someone had breached the flat?"

"There's a bloody sword sitting on the coffee table," Bond replied flatly.

That brought me up short.

"A what?"

"A sword. You know Q, long metallic pointy thing you can swing about. It was most definitely not there when we arrived but it is there now."

You could cut Bond's sarcastic tone with a knife or in this case a sword.

"Oh," was all I could think to say.

It took me less than 5 minutes to determine that there were no electronic bugs in the flat and another 5 to pronounce us and our gear free from any tracking devices that I had not placed personally. I then pulled out my tablet and accessed the building security. There had been a short power outage for the entire area at about half five lasting for seven and a quarter minutes. Simultaneously to the power outage a side door sensor had gone offline for almost the exact same period of time. Of course there was nothing on the camera feeds, not that I had expected anything. Whomever we were dealing with was way too good for that.

With the immediate tasks done I turned my attention to the cause of all the commotion. The sword itself didn't register anything electronic. I supposed that someone could have secreted something in the hilt or the pommel but as I looked closer the wear patterns did not indicate any recent tampering. All in all it looked like a bog-standard medieval sword. Judging by the bright edge, however, it had been recently sharpened.

Looking at the weapon my brain suddenly switched gears on me. While working on Mycroft's task I'd been more interested in how the thieves circumvented the security than anything else. Now suddenly I needed to know just what exactly had been stolen from Room 62 of the Victoria & Albert. A couple of keystrokes remedied my lack of knowledge.

"Shit!" was the first thing out of my mouth as I saw the image. The next thing was, "We've got to take it with us."

The statement echoed slightly in the room and I realized that Bond had said the exact same thing a beat or so behind my outburst.

Bond looked surprised for a moment then smirked, "You tell me yours and I'll tell you mine."

Only Bond could make such a simple request end up completely laden with innuendo.

"That," I pointed at the sword, "was important enough for someone to break into the V&A to obtain and important enough to plant in your flat. They didn't even wait until the flat was empty to place it here. Until we know more we need to keep it secret."

After a short pause Bond nodded in agreement then said, "My reason isn't quite so logical. In fact it's rather nonsensical when you come right down to it." He looked at me attempting to gage something and continued, "That sword is a dead ringer for the one the shows up in my recurring dreams."

The entire situation was becoming very strange very quickly. I couldn't see a pattern yet but I had a hunch that Bond and I were only seeing the tip of the iceberg. What was clear was that someone was trying to play Bond, myself, or both of us. At this point it looked like whomever was behind this was, at least in part using, the intelligence establishment from Mycroft on down to do so. Luckily dealing with my half-brothers had taught me quite a few things over the years not the least of which was a sure fire method for disrupting a game in progress. Suddenly removing a piece or pieces from play had the tendency to require major strategic shifts to compensate. Watching those shifts often told you more about what you were dealing with than any intelligence analysis ever could. This was exactly the type of thing Bond did on mission.

"We need to go dark," I stated bluntly. "The only thing we need to decide is whose resources to use."

Bond grinned back at me, "Not quite Quartermaster. We also need to decide who officially calls it. Are you going dark and taking me as a bodyguard or am I exercising my prerogative as your protection detail?"

I had to think for a moment.

"The latter I think. Which means your resources to start with."

"Once I call it in we'll need to move fast. We'll use Alec's bike." Bond replied.

"Give me 10 minutes," I said then added, "and that high tech blanket you didn't return after the Siberia mission two months ago."

Bond looked startled that I knew he still had it and that it was intact. I just smiled enigmatically. A bloke has to keep some secrets.

It only took a few minutes to set in motion a couple of cyber contingencies. It took a bit longer to wrap the sword and jury rig a harness for bond that didn't look like he was running around with medieval weaponry strapped to his back. Some of the same properties that made the blanket both light weight and warm also masked heat signatures and electronic radiation. If the sword was broadcasting its location or anything else the signal wouldn't get past the blanket.

We were on the road in less than my 10 minute estimate. Once we were clear of the vicinity of the flat Bond stopped the bike in a loading zone and called it in.

"Hey Shirley," Bond smoozed on the phone, "what did you think of the results of my last sales trip?" He listened for a minute or so then replied, "Oh no, that's not enough. The world is not enough for that." He listened again then laughed and rang off without saying goodbye.

Bond looked over his shoulder at me sitting on the back of the bike. He handed me the mobile then turned and started the engine. I in the meantime removed the SIM chip and snapped it. We started moving and I dropped the chip then lobbed the phone in the direction of a nearby wheelie bin. Surprisingly it went in easily. I chose to take it as a hopeful sign that our exodus from the grid would be just as smooth.


	6. On the Hunt

**Title:** History Lesson

 **Disclaimer:** I own no rights, I make no profit.

* * *

 **Chapter 5 – On the Hunt**

It took less than three steps down the pavement after we exited the building containing Mycroft's office for Sherlock to slip into _Major Case_ mode. I'm not quite sure what exactly tipped me off, the set of his shoulders, his stride length, the minuscule lines of tension around his eyes but it was clear at least to me that Sherlock's considerable intellect was now fully focused.

He raised his hand and a cab smoothly pulled to a stop in front of us. We piled in and the cabbie asked cheerfully, "Where to?"

"Barts," Sherlock said and pulled out his phone.

"Right O," the cabbie replied then asked, "Round front or loading dock?"

"Side door," Sherlock replied without looking up.

I took a good look at the cabbie. The majority of the cab drivers in London are immigrants but this one looked and sounded like second generation at the minimum.

Just then the cabbie caught my eye in the rear view mirror and grinned at me.

Suddenly it all made sense. The reason that Sherlock could always seem to conjure a cab was obvious. Sherlock Holmes was part of _The Knowledge_ that unwritten lore required of cabbies in London. They, like the homeless network, were part of _The Work_ and they knew it. At some point, probably after one of their own had tried to kill Sherlock, they had collectively decided to assist. I idly wondered how exactly it worked as I inclined my head in acknowledgement.

Sherlock finished up whatever he'd been doing on his mobile just as we pulled up. We hopped out and I paid with notes that I knew hadn't been in my wallet when I'd left the flat.

As I turned to follow Sherlock into the hospital I thought I heard the cabbie say softly, "Happy hunting Dr. Watson."

When we got to the morgue I was surprised to find Molly finishing up on the first of the three bodies from the day before.

"Sorry I didn't have time to get the others out for you," she said to Sherlock. "I was a little busy when you texted. My initial measurements are on that pad." She pointed with her chin.

Sherlock didn't head in that direction immediately. Instead he stopped on the other side of the table and examined the corpse's forearm minutely. I remembered Sherlock's remark about the tattoo removal.

"Try using black light on this," was his comment as he straightened.

"Picture is in the camera," Molly replied. "Haven't downloaded it yet but it didn't look like much. They did a really good job on it.

"Hmph," was Sherlock's reply as he went to look at her notations.

I wondered what we were doing here. More often than not Sherlock waited until after the autopsy was complete and then nicked the notes. Sometimes, especially on cases where the body had already been removed by the time we got to the crime scene, he'd come take a look before any of the proceedings had started. I could count on one hand the times he'd come in mid-autopsy. I noticed that Sherlock surreptitiously snapped a couple of photos with his phone of Molly's measurements just as she finished the last suture on the Y incision.

"You want to wait for me to transcribe those?" She asked.

"Nope." Sherlock popped the terminal p. "Where are the other two?"

"23 and 24. What are you looking at?"

I suspected the answer.

"Wound placement and measurements."

"Right," Molly was matter of fact. "Let me put him away and we'll get started then."

We rather quickly fell into a rhythm and did the job with minimal fuss, muss and bother. Molly didn't object to the help. It was a lot faster than if she'd been doing it all herself. Without an assistant it would have taken her most of the day. With the three of us working together it only took a few hours.

Once we had finished Sherlock put the pad upon which he had been scribbling measurements as Molly and I called them out and started texting furiously.

"Thanks," Molly remarked as we moved the third body back into its assigned drawer, "this will speed things up a bit. You'll have to wait for the tox screens to come back but at this point I don't expect anything much from _tall, dark and ripped_ ," she pointed an elbow at the drawer containing body number two, "or _svelte and French_ ," she nodded at body number three as she closed the door. "God only knows what our _local boy_ was into," she added in reference to the gentleman she'd been working on when we arrived. "Given the state of his liver though a fair bit of it was alcohol."

Every job has its own terminology and customs so I wasn't surprised by Molly's penchant for nicknaming the as yet unidentified corpses. I knew that she scrupulously referred to the bodies in her care rather formally if their names were known. It was partially as a sign of respect and partially to keep a mental distance. For some reason that just wasn't possible for her to do that with the unknowns. Apparently _Ms. Smith_ , _Mr. Bloggs_ or _Number 1234_ really didn't work for her so she chose a positive attribute and then referred to the unknown by that pseudonym until they were positively identified. Two of the nicknames were obvious. Corpse number three clearly had acquired the sobriquet _French_ due to his tattoo reading _Tu me Manques_ and corpse number two was physically as described.

" _Local Boy_?" I inquired as I stripped and binned my gloves.

"Stomach contents," Sherlock commented vaguely from across the room.

Molly smiled, "Only a local would go half way across town from where he was found to get take away from Francy's."

That explained it. The shop in question was almost impossible to find unless you knew exactly where you were headed. But that left a question. Sherlock had deduced a Midland's gang association. Was he wrong or had our _Local Boy_ relocated when he got his promotion and spent some funds on tattoo removal?

The high resolution color printer started up and I realized that Sherlock had been playing around with Molly's camera and computer presumably downloading the autopsy pictures. I wandered over and snagged the printouts. It was, as I had suspected, the pictures of _Local Boy's_ removed tattoo. I ferried them over to Sherlock at the desk. He took a look then grimaced.

"It really was a very good job of removal," I commented in reply.

Sherlock's face went completely blank at that. A moment later he blinked then looked up at me with a smile.

"Exactly John!"

He stood up and headed for the coat rack.

"If we are lucky he had it done here in London, not Manchester, Liverpool or somewhere else."

I realized then what he was on about. The equipment and expertise to do that good a job was not cheap. The one thing I didn't know was how widely available it was in greater London. We could figure out the tattoo if we could find the person who had removed it. Of course there would be a bit of a problem once we found who had done the removal. Tattoo removal at that level was a medical procedure after all which meant patient confidentiality rules. I did suppose that given the fact that the patient was dead we could have Lestrade use the need for "full and conclusive identification" to get around that.

Thinking of Lestrade shook my brain out of its frenetic musing. If _Local Boy_ had indeed gang associations then his prints would be in the system. From there a name and known associates would be easily obtained. That left me right back where I had started; wondering why Sherlock was so excited about tracing the tattoo removal when it would be less than a day or so before we had positive identification.

I blinked and realized that Sherlock had paused at the door. As soon as our eyes met he whirled away into the hall leaving me sputtering a quick goodbye to Molly and scrambling out the door after him.

I caught him at the lift and asked, "So where to now?"

He cocked his head at me and replied, "Back to Baker Street for the moment. I need you to do a bit of research on medical tattoo removal. Focus on techniques and equipment as opposed to practitioners and locations."

I had expected at least part of the request. I was a bit confused why he didn't want me to track down places where the procedure was performed.

"I have a method to narrow down the potential places where our deceased gentleman had it done," Sherlock informed me as we exited the lift. "Unfortunately…," he trailed off a pensive look on his face.

Oh I knew that look. It was the one where Sherlock expected me to strenuously object to the action he was about to propose. I sighed. He clearly was going to use some of his less reputable informants who would be less than forthcoming if I were present. Many of those informants had been developed during the time he was using and I worried. It must have shown on my face because I didn't even need to voice my concern.

"I'll text before and after each interview," Sherlock assured me. "If you don't receive anything for two hours then call Mycroft and have him trace my phone."

I raised my eyebrows at that. Sherlock telling me to call Mycroft for something. He grimaced at me as we got into the cab. I interpreted the look as _necessary evil_. The mere mention of Mycroft seemed to have soured Sherlock's mood and he sulked most of the way home. Just before we got there however he brightened up.

"At least we are officially consultants this time John," he remarked.

I thought I knew where he was going but I kept my mouth shut.

"Keep track of your research time. I fully intend to present The British Government with an itemized bill for our services." He exited the cab and paid the driver before adding, "even though we'll most likely want to take our remuneration in kind as opposed to cash."

"Speak for yourself," I teased as I followed him up the stairs and into our flat. "I at least could use an extra quid or two."

Sherlock headed for his room and I headed for my laptop to get right on the necessary research. Despite the joking around at Mycroft's expense I could tell that Sherlock was taking this case very seriously. Maybe it was the fact that Mycroft had willingly enlisted the help of both his brothers in their respective specialties and even let Sherlock see his uncertainty that was leading Sherlock to pull out all the stops and expedite his investigation. Whatever it was it behooved me to do my part so I booted up the laptop and started in.

I was just starting to dig into the subject when Sherlock came back out of his room. He was dressed in tatty jeans, trainers and a windcheater. He disappeared into the kitchen for a minute or so and came back out looking a bit dirty and with somewhat greasy hair.

"Coffee grounds and olive oil," he said in response to my look.

He headed for the door paused and pulled out an older mobile from a pocket before taking off down the stairs. As I had suspected my mobile buzzed with a text from an unknown number moments later. It was a time stamped photo of the bin in the back alley.

Several hours and a number of time stamped photos via SMS later I knew more than I ever wanted to know about laser tattoo removal. Apparently the quality of the removal was in part due to the composition of the original tattoo, in part due to the equipment and in part due to the operator of same. Monochrome responded better than multi-colored and smaller, simpler tattoos were the easiest to remove. I had a list of higher end equipment as well as a list of private practitioners who advertised that they used said equipment.

That task done I took a look at the photos Sherlock had sent. I recognized a variety of landmarks, some famous but others only familiar to the two of us. From what I knew of the locations and the time stamps Sherlock had covered a lot of ground.

I felt a little useless at the moment not quite knowing what I could do to aid in the case then it came to me. I had some of my own resources that I could tap for information. Not about tattoos, I figured that Sherlock had that angle well covered, but more on the sword fighting angle. One of my mates from Afghanistan, now discharged, was an MMA fighter. I'd gone with him once to the dojo where he trained. The place had been not quite to my taste as a place to work out but I had noticed that they had an extensive set of weapons on the wall. My buddy Mark had noticed my interest and mentioned in passing that this particular establishment had a Sensi who was relatively famous for his weapons work. I figured it was a place to start. A couple of texts later I'd wrangled an introduction to Sensi Brian Kurtis and a meeting in an hour or so at a Dojo.

Sensi Brian, as he insisted I call him, proved to be whipcord thin man who looked to be in his 60's but was probably older. He was part owner of the Dojo and despite his given title I thought he'd physically fit in more in the Scottish highlands than in an establishment with a distinctly Japanese flavor. Sherlock most likely would have been able to tell more about his heritage and the like from the state of his shoes or something.

Now Sherlock doesn't have a very high opinion regarding my ability to deceive someone. He seems to think that everyone can tell when I am being untruthful. I have always found that people tend to believe me when I tell the truth. Therefore when I need to be deceitful I tell the truth, just not the whole truth.

I explained that Sherlock and I were working on a case involving missing medieval weaponry; Mycroft had hired us as consultants after all. I indicated that we were interested in having contacts who could keep an eye out for the missing pieces. Sensi Brian provided the names of a couple of other establishments who taught medieval sword and dagger style fencing and promised a contact with the local historical reenactment crowd. I thanked him and mentioned in passing my experiences in Afghanistan dealing with the damage bladed weapons could inflict by accident. That comment in turn lead to a discussion of differences in fighting styles based on the weaponry being used, a practical demonstration and links to a couple of You-Tube videos. By the time I returned to Baker Street I was feeling that I had accomplished quite a bit in furtherance of the investigation.


	7. Apocalypse Quartered

**Title:** History Lesson

 **Disclaimer:** I own no rights, I make no profit.

* * *

 **Chapter 6 – Apocalypse Quartered**

My brother Sherlock has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the available surveillance cameras in the greater London Metropolitan area. I had never bothered storing such information since I was inevitably on the _Seek_ side of any _Hide and Seek_ games that he or anyone else would play. By the time we reached our destination however, it became clear to me that Bond had something similar. The more I reflected on our path to date I realized that Bond was not only strategically using blind spots but also busy intersections, crowds and traffic patterns to give any recognition algorithm absolute fits. That explained a lot about his uncanny ability to drop off my surveillance when on mission.

We had started off making a blatant show of getting out of town on the M4 then ducked off onto side roads and circled around to come into London again from the north-west. Alec's bike was ubiquitous in many respects so we didn't ditch it. We swapped out helmets a couple times by the simple expedient of switching them with those on parked bikes. At one point we exchanged jackets and I even drove with Bond riding pillion for a time to switch up our profile. Of course all the subterfuge was potentially rendered ineffective due to the fact that we were carrying a rather distinctively shaped large package containing one wrapped sword the entire time. We did change the outside wrapping a couple times as well as acquired and discarded additional _shopping_ bags so maybe the sword was not quite as conspicuous as it felt.

Eventually we ended up a nondescript storage garage. Bond got off the bike and punched a code into a keypad. I suppose I was expecting an Audi, an Aston-Martin or some other high performance vehicle. What was sitting in the unit however was a several year old grey Volkswagen Golf.

My face must have shown my surprise because Bond smiled at me saying, "Camouflage."

I thought for a moment; it made sense. The only thing better for blending in would have been a white Ford Fiesta. I maneuvered the bike into the garage and Bond closed the door behind us.

"We'll be here for a little bit," Bond informed me as he headed for a large tool chest.

I parked the bike, unloaded then covered it with a slightly dirty tarp that I found sitting in a corner. The dust I raised in the process would, I hoped, make it look at least superficially like the bike hadn't been moved for a while. I transferred our stuff to the backseat of the car then took the time to look around. The car took up most of the room but along one wall was the aforementioned tool chest, a small work bench and some storage cabinets. I idly wondered what they contained. While I was busy Bond had opened the tool chest and was rummaging around in it. He looked over at me then, as if sensing my thoughts, he started talking.

"We are a paranoid lot," he remarked. "Most of the 00's have multiple cashes off the books. We also tend know the locations and access codes to a few of the other's spots. This one at least nominally belongs to Laura but Alec and I have used it often enough so that it's turned into a shared area." He pulled out a mobile and it's charger then jerked his chin at one of the cabinets, "Clothes are in there. Switch out your jacket and grab a hat and scarf that will fit me. I need to set up our accommodations."

I opened the indicated cabinet and started looking for something suitable. Behind me I could hear Bond making a call. From what I could hear of the conversation he appeared to be talking to a rental company of some sort. After a bit of back and forth he rang off just as I found an appropriate hat. At that point it was simple to snag a scarf and jackets.

"So?" I asked closing the cabinet and turning around.

"Some time ago a _Mr. Hoffman_ and a _Mr. Brodrick_ provided startup funds for a holiday rental business. In exchange they get access to the properties whenever they request it."

Interesting. Once again it made a lot of sense. Why own a specific location that would sit empty much of the time when you could have access to a rotating series of flats and houses. The security would be top notch and the neighbors would be used to different people occupying the premises for a couple of days to a couple of weeks. The only thing better for anonymity would be a high end hotel but Bond, like many of the 00's was well known for using such places to hole up. I suspected that this was at least one way the Bond and Trevelyan managed to stay under the radar in London. Now hopefully the flat in question would have decent internet access.

Once again Bond continued as if reading my mind, "And all of them have direct internet access."

I grinned, "What are we waiting for?"

"You to change jackets and put on that scarf," was the reply.

I did and we were off again this time in the VW.

I was surprised at how quickly we arrived at our destination. Bond didn't take major evasive action as he had with the motorbike. No this time he made what I realized later was only a minor detour to ensure that we were not currently being tailed. It was only about 20 minutes before Bond was looking for parking.

"The only problem with this set-up," he remarked as he pulled into a just vacated space, "is that many of the properties don't have a garage."

"Could be useful if they haven't made your vehicle," I replied, "you wouldn't get blocked in."

"I tend to prefer keeping the car off the street; less likely to be randomly spotted by someone. I also feel it's better to have transport easy to hand in case you need to move quickly. If they've tracked you to a safe-house then you have bigger problems." Bond paused for a moment, "In that case you are probably leaving via a window and ditching the car anyway."

I had to smile to myself at that one. The number of times 007 had managed to escape using creative defenestration, either his own or someone else's, was legion.

"Just refrain from throwing me out said window and I'll be happy," I replied as we unloaded.

Bond led us around the corner and over a half block to a nice looking walk up, no different from any of its neighbors. Like many buildings in London this block had originally been a set of row houses that had been divided up into flats at some point. I could tell by looking that someone had done a major renovation job on this bit of the block only a few years ago.

Bond slid aside a cover on a box cleverly made to match the trim revealing a keypad. He punched in a number and I heard the lock click open.

I didn't quite know what I had been expecting when Bond said _holiday rental company_ but what I walked into was a tastefully furnished flat. The quality was mid to high range hotel, not luxury but comfortable.

"There should be a binder in the sitting room," Bond directed. "It will have the basic internet access information. If you need the router or the connection itself you are on your own."

Bond continued on to make a circuit of the flat, checking security and making sure we were alone. I found the binder and took a quick look at the information. Internet was via cable modem with wi-fi which meant the modem and the router would be somewhere on the line to the television. It was a matter of moments to find both in the TV cabinet. Even better I discovered that someone had etched a series of numbers into the back of the modem. That would, I suspected, get me into the setup program without my having to hack it. Thank heavens for small favors. I unpacked my gear in the dining nook and got down to work.

Bond proceeded to organize and repack most of our shared resources in the sitting room. Once he'd finished with that job he proceeded to clean his gun. Despite appearing engrossed in his self-appointed tasks he would stop every 45 minutes or so and prowl around the flat.

After the latest round of prowling Bond inquired "You have a stopping spot?"

"10 minutes."

"I'm ordering takeaway, any preferences?"

"Anything but pizza," I replied.

I heard Bond on the landline. It sounded like Indian was the cuisine du jour. That was followed shortly by the sounds of water and a kettle. A mug of tea appeared next to my left hand. I grunted my thanks.

By the time I had finished up the food had arrived and I was ready for a break. I stood up, stretched and holstered the pistol that I'd left sitting on the right side of the laptop while I'd been working.

"Do I want to know?" Bond asked indicating the firearm and its holster on the table.

"Mental focus trick," I replied as we adjourned to the sitting room and food.

I wondered if Bond was insulted that I'd seemingly not trusted in his ability to protect me. I expected some allusion to that but was a bit surprised that Bond didn't immediately follow up. Instead he handed me an already made up plate. It was only after I'd managed to eat most of it that he broached the subject again.

"Generally when a pistol is pointed at me I become very focused indeed," he remarked. "However I'm of the opinion that wasn't your intent."

"It's a technique I developed early on when I realized that I had a tendency to lose track of what was going on around me," I explained. "I keep something in my peripheral vision to remind me to remain aware of my surroundings. The particular item used and its placement tell me exactly how much concentration I can afford."

"Do you often feel the need to use a firearm Q?"

"Not recently. Not in the branch."

Given what Bond knew of my history I suspected he would be able to determine exactly when and in what circumstances it had been necessary.

"But," I continued, "I can't use it for the next bit."

I looked over at him. I hoped he'd get where I was going without a lot of explanation.

"So what exactly are you going to be doing that requires your full concentration?"

"An excursion into the dark web," I replied. "This whole situation has the earmarks of being the tip of an iceberg. I need to go poke around and see if there are hints of anything big going on."

Bond looked thoughtful at that, "The internet equivalent of infiltrating the Sicilian Mafia then."

I remembered that mission: A simple intelligence gathering exercise that took a left turn when Bond had stumbled across an assassination plot against a sitting head of state.

"Good analogy," I replied.

"How long do you think you'll need?"

"A couple hours to start; I need to reactivate and reestablish Pestilence. Then I'll see what I can find."

Bond sighed, "And you complain about me overusing the _Bond_ legend when you are masquerading on line as one of the four horseman of the apocalypse?"

I smiled, "Not masquerading 007. I earned that title and no one else has had the chops to claim it since."

Bond muttered something that sounded like _cocky hackers_ under his breath then asked, "So what do you need me to do besides the obvious?"

I was pleased that he had asked. It meant that he was taking me seriously as a full and capable member of the enterprise as opposed to the last time I had found myself under his watchful eye. We then proceeded to discuss ways to get my attention without interrupting and set up a variety of contingency measures. With all that and dinner out of the way I moved back to the dining nook and commenced my dive into the bowels of cyberspace.

An indeterminate time later I surfaced and stretched. Given how I felt and the state of my bladder it had been quite some time.

"A little after three hundred," said Bond as he handed me a cup of tea when I finally wandered into the Kitchen. "You find anything?"

"Nothing about that," my eyes went to the hilt of the sword that I could see poking over his left shoulder in its makeshift sheaf and baldric "but I did run across some other interesting stuff."

"Do tell."

"Well it's been quiet for the last couple of weeks. Only the usual identity theft, phishing expeditions and scams are active. Most of the high level black hats are lying low because the FBI managed to find and plug their leak."

"What kind of leak and does it affect us?"

"Oh the cousins have had a low level inside leaker for a while. They've been using it to plant information," I explained. "They weren't too worried about it until he upped his game and finagled his way into some top secret files. It was something related to the CIA's black ops programs and had some sort of tie into the state department. They didn't even realize he'd snagged it until they got hacked by Radical Ed."

"Radical Ed?" Bond looked confused.

I supposed I'd better explain, "Radical Edward the Forth is a quasi-grey hat hacker. He gets his kicks getting into anything and everything then leaving notes on how to improve security. The story I got was that Radical Ed hacked NCIS and realized that someone had been in before him. He back traced it into DOD and realized that the same hacker had been in the CIA's servers. He dumped his findings on NCIS and they looped the FBI in. The resultant shit storm made everyone and their brother decide to lay low for a bit."

"From what Felix has mentioned," Bond commented, "the FBI can get a little over enthusiastic at times. Although there's a guy I've met in their Washington office who is decently subtle."

I let that one go and continued, "The leak was selling candidate vetting lists for some kind of black ops controller position. The U.S. was trying to fill one of these positions and apparently they don't just limit their vetting to in house sources they also ask allied nations to see if the candidates pop up in their data. The hacker not only got their current candidate list but also some older lists from other countries when they were trying to fill a similar position."

"They didn't bother to destroy the old lists? I thought their security protocols were better than that?"

"Oh they did but they just deleted it and didn't wipe the free space. That particular drive isn't used much so the hacker was able to recover a bunch of the old lists."

Bond looked puzzled, "And this is relevant because?"

"Well I had to hack the CIA for that one. I found out that one of the old lists was ours. It was over five years old but they still sent out an alert that it was released. What's really interesting," I added, "is that the alert doesn't go to anyone in MI 5 or through me. It goes to some strange international cooperation division of the Home Office that I've never heard of before."

"Your brother then?" Bond asked.

"Surprisingly no. Some low level guy named Kirkland who is nominally under my brother."

"So what makes this Kirkland fellow so important that he is the contact for a leak of potentially obsolete information?" Bond mused half to himself.

"That's the next step," I admitted. "I need to find anything and everything about one Arthur Kirkland."


	8. All Roads Lead to Birmingham?

**Title:** History Lesson

 **Disclaimer:** I own no rights, I make no profit.

* * *

 **Chapter 7 – All Roads Lead to Birmingham?**

I woke up well rested which was an anomaly when working a case. I'd decided to catch some shut-eye after I had received a message from Sherlock that he was heading to NSY to take a look at some of their organized crime files. Of course I didn't get to sleep until after I'd answered a series of increasingly irate texts from Greg regarding Sherlock's demanding access to same. Having Greg check his authorization level solved that issue post-haste. Mycroft's minions had been competent as usual.

I wandered down to the sitting room and discovered Sherlock sound asleep on the sofa. From his position I deduced that he'd been rummaging around in his mind palace and fallen asleep. That did not bode well for either his temper or the state of the case. The only times I'd ever seen Sherlock fall asleep during a session of memory retrieval was when he was metaphorically grasping at straws and not finding any.

Fortified with a mug full of tea I sat in my chair and took the rare opportunity to view my flat mate at rest. He looked quite a bit younger when sleeping even laying on his back like some sort of 6 foot tall manikin. I don't think anyone would call Sherlock conventionally handsome; his face was too lean, his nose too long and his lips were far too thin. Likewise his form was lean, lank and tall without much visible muscle mass although I knew from personal experience it had amazing strength. I could see, even from my chair several feet away, the faint remnants of needle tracks on his arms; a permanent reminder of his struggles with addiction. Despite all that I had overheard a variety of people describe Sherlock as some variant of drop-dead gorgeous. It must be his hair, I concluded; his hair and his eyes. You could lose yourself in those enigmatic grey eyes with that enormous intelligent intellect behind them. I realized suddenly that I was actually staring into those very eyes. Sherlock had woken up.

"Tea?" I asked to cover the fact that I'd just been caught staring.

An affirmative sounding _Umph_ was what I got in response. I took it as a yes and headed for the kitchen.

By the time I got back to the sitting room Sherlock was upright and looking more put together. I handed him a mug of tea and a plate of toast with honey.

"Eat first," I commanded.

To my surprise he did so. I waited until the last bite of toast had disappeared then grabbed a pad of paper, a biro and sat in my chair expectantly. We'd done this before on tricky cases when there were large amounts of data points that didn't seem to connect in any way shape or form. Sherlock would complain about the lack of enough data to make deductions. He would then proceed to rant and I would take note of things that caught my ear and ask questions. I wasn't exactly sure what part of this process helped but usually by the end of it Sherlock would have another lead or two to explore.

"Raymond Scott, originally of Birmingham is our 'local boy' as Molly dubbed him." Sherlock started in without his usual preamble. "He used to work as muscle for a midlands gang then disappeared off the scene a year or so ago. He resurfaced in the London suburbs working for an office moving service. His name was in the MET database due to an investigation of a string of arson cases. All of the affected businesses had used Mr. Scott's employer within the prior year so the police did more than the usual check of the employees involving both nationwide and Interpol databases. The arson turned out to be a simple insurance scam run by a string of failing businesses," Sherlock grimaced. "Nothing to indicate any organizational involvement."

"The moving service?" I asked while scribbling.

"Legitimate. It's owned by one Fredrick Montgomery. Franchisee of a variety of furniture stores as well. He's known on the street as a 'do-gooder' and someone who occasionally hires ex-gang members who want to go straight. Has ties with a variety of not for profits providing work experience for council flat youth. Nothing obvious there either."

"Anything on the tattoo removal? My research indicated that it's a booming business."

"Noticed in the arson case. Mr. Scott provided details as well as the name of the doctor who did it. It all checked out."

"So we have a former thug trying to be good," I commented as I scribbled. "What the heck was he doing in a squat for a week with our other two bodies?"

"Lestrade questioned his employer once the identification came through. He'd quit less than two weeks ago allegedly to go north to help his mum who had a cancer diagnosis."

"And?"

"Mum has been dead for several years according to Lestrade," Sherlock looked at me. "As I've mentioned before he best lies have an element of truth. It was cancer but she was in London."

I thought for a moment, "I suppose we'll just have to wait on the MET to comb through his financial and electronic life then. At least Greg can use the jihadist execution set up to justify expediting his requests."

"Mycroft already has ensured anything related to this case is high priority," Sherlock grimaced again upon remembering that technically we were working for Mycroft. "He informed Lestrade that his people were working on the identity of the other two since they'd clearly arrived from either the U.S. or Canada within the last six months."

"That may take a bit. That's an awful lot of data to comb through just with direct flights alone." A thought occurred to me and I added, "What if they flew to another EU country and then backtracked here?"

"I don't hold out much hope for results on that front," Sherlock acknowledged. "Too many possibilities without narrowing down the entry point, the time period or both."

"So what else did your informants have to say? Judging from the pictures you sent me you covered a lot of ground yesterday."

He sighed, "I confirmed what I suspected that monkeys or other small pets able to throw a lock are not at all common in the criminal classes. Even the higher levels of the known organized crime syndicates don't seem to flaunt their wealth and prestige that way. Too high profile and too much government interference in the form of permits and such." He paused for a moment then continued, "There was no indication that anyone had been looking to hire a procurement expert of the caliber it would take to lift the swords from the V&A within the last 6 months to a year."

"Stealing from the V&A is clearly not garden variety breaking and entering." I concurred.

"Nope." Sherlock popped the terminal P. You'd need my brother's technological expertise or someone…" Sherlock trailed off an abstracted look on his face.

I waited.

"No. No," he muttered. "Last I heard the FBI was using him as a criminal informant. Besides, his thing was primarily paintings not artifacts. Still…"

Sherlock grabbed his phone and sent a text.

"Mycroft can check faster than I can," He informed me.

"OK. So no one was looking for an expert thief and the only one you currently can think of who could do the job is most likely unavailable." I reiterated.

Sherlock glared but didn't say anything. He really hates it when I restate the obvious although when we were working in this fashion he grudgingly acknowledges the necessity. I suspect he uses it as a cross-check of sorts insuring that no avenue of inquiry has been left unexamined.

"Anything else?"

"It's quite easy to find a medieval sword and dagger combinations from the same period as our missing weaponry. You don't even have to use the black market when a Google search will reveal at least three antique dealers in Greater London with same in stock. Of course Mycroft's involvement and his ancient protocols tend to indicate the thieves were after this particular sword and dagger combination."

"Well that means that I don't need to ask the contacts I managed to find in the martial arts and reenactment communities," I said. "I was going to see if they had heard about anyone selling something like that."

Sherlock cocked his head in mute query at that.

"I wrangled an introduction to a martial arts sword master via an old friend which gave me a list of people to talk to."

Sherlock absorbed that information then continued, "But it makes no logical sense to steal just those pieces. They were rather ordinary examples of their type according to Mr. Owen's assessment."

"Sentiment then," I remarked. "Someone is after their 6th great-grandfather's weapon used in the battle of Hastings or something."

"If so," Sherlock replied, "it is not such an obvious sentimental attraction as that. Mycroft's people are researching the providence of the pieces to see if they can turn something up. I inquired late yesterday and they hadn't found anything yet. My informants hadn't heard about anyone wanting antiques. The only thing they would offer was that the gentleman who is the universally acknowledged purveyor of the best forged documents in the country is always open to purchase historical artifacts. Unfortunately he's generally been more interested in documents than tangible pieces they said," Sherlock mused.

Even though it was slightly off topic I had to ask, "History buff?"

Sherlock snorted, "Obsessed with the supernatural, specifically historical ghosts."

"Doesn't sound like someone who'd want a sword," I replied then in an attempt to lighten the mood added, "unless it was presented to him from a lake by a watery tart."

Sherlock looked at me blankly for a moment then said, "Oh, that absolutely absurd movie which you tell me I cannot delete since it is referenced so frequently."

"It's a classic!" I protested.

Sherlock opened his mouth, presumably to argue the point, when his mobile buzzed. He snatched it up and looked at the text.

"Lestrade says they found a lorry with a dead body in it. He wants us to see if it's related to our case."

"Did he indicate why he thinks it might be?" I inquired as I put aside my pad and stood.

"Nope." Sherlock said, as usual popping the terminal P,

"He probably wants your unbiased opinion," I remarked.

Sherlock grinned at me in approval and tossed me my jacket, "The game is on!"

Since it wasn't rush hour it didn't take too long to arrive at the scene. Lestrade, looking harried, was on his mobile. He waived us over as he finished up and rang off. I knew he was tired because he started in without any preamble.

"The body has been there for a while. It's a bit whiffy," he warned. "Only reason the smell wasn't noticed before is because this lorry was formerly a refrigerated unit. The back is relatively air tight and heavily insulated."

I looked around. The lorry was in a yard which was clearly used as a car park for various sized trucks and other equipment. The only thing that distinguished it from its fellows was the police tape which had been tied to the surrounding vehicles. I could see clearly why Lestrade had called us. Over half of the vehicles bore either the logo of the office moving company or Montgomery's furniture store. The remainder were a mixed lot clearly branded as belonging to other local businesses and a few, like the one roped off, which were completely plain.

"Where do you hide a red fish?" I muttered half under my breath.

Sherlock, of course, heard me and replied, "In a pond full of other red fish obviously!" referencing a koi-napping case we'd had some time ago.

Lestrade looked like he was about to ask when his mobile rang. He answered while waiving his hand indicating that Sherlock should go and take a look.

Sherlock examined the ground around the lorry and made a caustic remark about a herd of elephants under his breath. He then examined the doors, the tires, the wheel wells as well as almost crawling under it from the front. He finally ended up at the open back doors. I followed.

Lestrade was right, the smell was decaying flesh but due to the open air it was not nearly as overwhelming as the smell had been in the warehouse. Sherlock jumped up on the back bumper and peered into the interior. I was a bit surprised that he had not entered but remained perched on the bumper. I didn't have long to contemplate that little mystery because just as Lestrade joined me Sherlock turned and gracefully jumped to land beside us.

"Well?" Lestrade asked.

"From the mud splatters in the wheel wells this lorry has been in the area of the warehouse sometime in the last week. It has also been cursorily washed prior to being parked here. It was most likely parked either late Monday or early Tuesday given the state of the ground underneath the engine block as well as the evidence of rain on the bonnet and windscreen," Sherlock waived his hand in the general direction of the front of the lorry. "You are going to need to carefully process the entire inside. There's a dent about halfway up the driver's side wall that looks like someone relatively strong punched it in frustration. The inside rear doors also have evidence that indicates someone tried to get out. There are also some fibers from a rope, on the broken tie down hasp near the front."

Lestrade had been scribbling as Sherlock talked, "Meaning that we have not only a lorry with a body but also one that was presumably used in a kidnapping, right. Anything on our victim?"

"A professor from Oxford, History or Classics would be the first departments to query. He was a frugal ex-smoker with a heart condition who wore glasses for reading but not otherwise. He was snatched on his way home and drugged. It was supposed to wear off because he was tied. His companion was also drugged and tied but managed to use the broken tie down on the floor to cut his bonds when the drugs wore off. He untied our victim who was having an adverse reaction to whatever the drug was that was used. The companion attempted to force the doors then punched the wall in frustration. The kidnappers used the professor's condition to obtain his companion's cooperation in removing both himself and the professor from the lorry. The professor expired either due to his heart condition or whatever reaction he had to the drugging and his body was tossed back into the lorry which our kidnappers then proceeded to get rid of by hiding it in with a bunch of similar delivery vehicles."

"Humph," Lestrade grunted, "I understand Oxford and the ex-smoker, that's a clothes and stain issue. The companion and tied is from the dents and the rope fibers. You are going to need to walk me through the adverse reaction and why you don't think he died in here."

Sherlock looked a little surprised. Clearly Lestrade had picked up on more that he had expected.

"No abrasions at the wrists and there's a bit of blood stain on his coat where his companion sat and held him in a half sitting position. There's also bodily fluids on his trousers but none in the bed of the lorry," Sherlock replied.

"Frugal classics Professor?" Lestrade asked hopefully.

I had to chuckle under my breath. From what little I'd seen of the body from the ground the clothing was stereotypical academic of at least ten years prior.

"Callouses, cuff links and collar stays," Sherlock replied shortly.

All of this was well and good but I still couldn't see why Lestrade thought this was connected to the crime scene in the warehouse other than the coincidence of the lorry being parked in and amongst vehicles belonging to Mr. Scott's former employer. Some of my confusion must have shown on my face.

"Coincidence generally isn't," Sherlock started in only to be interrupted by Lestrade.

"And it isn't in this case. The lorry had been purchased by the Montgomery's Office Movers over two weeks ago from a wholesaler. Mr. Scott had been assigned to go and collect it just before he suddenly quit. I just had the wholesaler on my mobile. He indicated that Mr. Scott picked up the lorry the day after he'd quit. The office manager for Montgomery's on the other hand thought it was still with the wholesaler and was attempting to find a driver to go and fetch it."

Sherlock looked briefly like he'd bit into a lemon. I could almost see him thinking _Why did you text me if you figured out most of it yourself?_

Lestrade caught the look and put up his hands in a placating gesture, "I didn't have anything until the registration office coughed up the lorry's ownership history. I was also lucky that the wholesaler called me back. My biggest problem was getting an ID on our victim. Even if we expedite things it will take a few days and only if his prints are in the system. You've given us a place to start looking in the meantime."

Sherlock still was looking a little sour but then I noticed his eyes were a bit unfocused as he mentally reviewed his recent observations. I'd seen this before usually just before...

"Have Molly expedite the toxicity screen and tell her to look for that designer GHB derivative that's been showing up in the midlands recently. It has a history of causing adverse reactions in some people," Sherlock told Lestrade.

Lestrade looked completely flummoxed, "But…"

While I am not terribly good at observing and drawing conclusions from such observations as Sherlock is I will, however, admit to being an expert observer of Sherlock. I would need to check later to determine my accuracy but I realized by looking at him that he'd somehow determined Lestrade's phone call had come from the midlands, most likely Birmingham. He'd probably done it by recognizing the number prefix when Lestrade had looked at his mobile just prior to answering. Mr. Scott was originally from Birmingham and though Sherlock hadn't mentioned it to me, had most likely worked for the history buff who ran the document forgery business. I knew that Sherlock wouldn't have bothered researching the history buff if Mr. Scott was not connected in some way. His research in the yard's database must have also turned up the fact that there was a new GHB derivative showing up near Birmingham. The GHB was probably also connected in some way to the history buff.

Sherlock sighed, "Birmingham is where the clues lead. Come along John, I think we need to interview your weapon's contacts."


	9. Reaching Dead Ends

**Title:** History Lesson

 **Disclaimer:** I own no rights, I make no profit.

* * *

 **Chapter 8 – Reaching Dead Ends**

After filling Bond in on my initial findings I decided that I was going to quit for the remainder of the night. I knew I was going to start my investigation of Mr. Kirkland with the generally available sources followed by another dive into the dark web. If those panned out my next move was going to be getting into the Home Office followed by a walk through Mycroft's systems. Doing the latter without using MI6 or setting off any of the protections I knew were there meant I was going to have to be at the top of my game. Of course that brought up another potential problem; only one bed.

Once again Bond seemed to read my mind, "The sofa folds out or the bed is big enough to share. Your call."

I thought for a moment. We were officially dark but would my subconscious draw the distinction between this situation and hiding because someone was after me? For that matter would sleeping in a strange place trigger any latent PTSD still hanging around from my kidnapping? I knew from my various bouts with the psychologists that I subconsciously associated most of the 00s, Bond especially, with safety. Would sleeping in the same bed, I wondered, be enough to stave off a nightmare or worse a panic attack? For a moment I seriously considered bedding down in the closet. Of course the closet wasn't really an option. I'd be stiff and Bond would most likely spend all night sitting in front of the closet door.

That left sharing a bed. Given that I had even considered the closet as an option meant that Bond in the next room would be too far away. Unfortunately, sharing a bed would have the potential to be very awkward in the morning. Generally I had a tendency to snuggle up and grab onto my bed partners. The more I cared about someone it seemed the more I would act like an octopus in my sleep. If I was really being honest with myself I cared a great deal about James so my sleeping behavior was most likely going to be an issue. However, if I was going to be at my best I needed some serious uninterrupted down time.

"Well," I sighed, "I think we better share."

I was surprised at Bond's response, "You think you'll sleep better?"

"If anything today was triggering your presence should stave it off," I admitted then plowed on, "However, I must warn you that sometimes I tend to get possessive in my sleep."

Bond laughed, "I doubt you could pull anything I've not dealt with before. As long as you don't try to engage in any somnambulistic sex then I think we'll be good."

I could feel my ears getting red. Hopefully they were covered enough by my hair so he wouldn't notice.

"I prefer to be fully cognizant when engaging in amorous activities," was what came out of my mouth.

I winced at the pompous nature of that statement but Bond didn't seem to care.

"So do I," he admitted with a smile. "You take the en-suite first. I'm going to set up the doors and rearrange the furniture to give me a bit of warning if anyone tries to force their way in." He paused then added, "You are sleeping on the side away from the door."

That I had expected. Bond was in protection detail mode which meant placing the asset where anything had to go through the agent first.

It didn't take long for me to clean up and crawl into the bed. I positioned my glasses strategically for a one handed grab and jam onto my face and made sure the pistol was easily accessible. In the unlikely event that someone broke in I'd be able to roll off the bed and come up with both glasses in place and firearm ready. It was not terribly necessary since anyone breaking in would inevitably be dealing with Bond first. However, the preparations did make me feel more secure which was the entire point.

Bond came into the bedroom just then. He noted my preparations and grunted his approval on the way to the en-suite. By the time he had finished and slipped into the bed I was fighting sleep. As I had suspected his proximity allowed me to relax and I quickly slipped into oblivion.

00Q/00Q/00Q/00Q

I woke up gradually. I was relaxed, warm and being held. I slowly realized that I was half laying on the person holding me. There was a faint smell of gun oil mixed with the barest hint of a familiar aftershave. I then noticed that my nose was pressed up underneath a chin with my forehead resting on a stubbly cheek. With that my brain came on line suddenly as I realized I was snuggling with James Bond.

Bond rumbled, "You awake there Q?"

I halfheartedly attempted to extricate myself from his hold while mumbling, "No."

I figured feigning being half asleep was my best bet at avoiding embarrassment.

"So you don't want me to get up and make tea?"

"Tea?"

I raised my head and looked at him in an approximation of just woke up confusion.

He chuckled and said, "Not bad. However, faking sleep in this position requires a bit better muscle control. You are way too tense."

I'm not quite sure exactly what he did then but suddenly I was in sole possession of the bed and a nude, except for pants, Bond was shrugging on his shoulder holster. He stalked out of the room like the predator that he was, still chuckling under his breath. I realized at that point that I was incredibly aroused.

A shower and change of clothes later I wandered out into the living area of the flat to find Bond impeccably dressed, reading something on his mobile. He looked up as I entered.

"You'll be happy to know that you neither snore nor toss and your possessiveness is relatively mild." Then he asked, "Full English?"

I wasn't quite sure just what to say to the first remark but the second completely derailed my brain. We'd been in the flat less than 24 hours and neither of us had left. How the heck was Bond going to produce breakfast out of thin air?

"If I suspect I'm going to stay a couple of days I have the rental company stock the kitchen with some staples," Bond explained.

Now that made sense however I wasn't even going to deign to answer the breakfast question until I had…

Bond stood and moved to the kitchen area. He clicked on the kettle which obligingly started steaming, he must have turned it on when I was in the shower, and started to make tea. Before I knew what was happening I had a mug of tea and was seated at the table watching Bond efficiently make breakfast despite the fact I hadn't indicated whether I wanted it or not. Unsurprisingly by the time he had finished assembling it I was hungry so I tucked into it.

When I'd polished off the last of my toast I looked at him and said, "Thank you. I didn't know you could cook."

"You pick up a lot of skills out in the field," he replied. "Most of them even prove useful at one point or another." He smiled and started clearing the plates, "So today you are going to unearth Mr. Kirkland's electronic secrets?"

"I'm going to start with the easy stuff, social media and the like then dig into the banking and credit. What I find will direct my search from there."

"Well you better get to it then," Bond said from the sink. "I figure we have about 48 hours before M starts making unfounded assumptions about either your or my loyalty."

I snorted in reply. I'd pulled M's metaphorical fat out of the fire too many times for him to doubt my loyalty. That, however, didn't mean that he wasn't going to start receiving pressure from various quarters for having his Quartermaster and most effective 00 in the wind. I therefore booted up my laptop and dug into the research.

I was half way through the financials when I noticed the pattern. By the time I read through the credit reports I was almost sure. I doubled back and rechecked a couple of things and just had to laugh out loud. The noise, of course, brought Bond.

"Well?"

"We are not going to get much background on Mr. Kirkland I'm afraid," I smiled at him.

"Because?"

"He's a legend."

"And this makes you laugh?"

"Yes, because specifically he's my legend."

Bond's eyebrows went up at that but all he said was, "Explain."

"You know after the first incident with Mr. Greene I spent over a month changing my identity and backstopping it."

Bond nodded.

"Well, at the same time I made the outlines and set in place the framework for five other legends. There are two left. I used two for 00 missions where the background needed to be impeccable and this," I gestured at my laptop, "is the third."

"So what did you use it for and why?" Bond asked.

"It was one of the earliest things I did in Q-Branch," I started to explain. "A request had come in from the Home Office to create a set of records and an electronic back trail, name to be left blank. It bounced around as an assignment for about two weeks." I had to smile as I remembered the circumstances, "Scuttlebutt at the time was that the assignment was cursed. It seemed like everyone who started working on it would get pulled into something incredibly complex within 48 hours plus or minus. By the time it landed on my desk six people had worked on it, only the bare minimum had been done and we had a deadline."

"You decided to pull out one of your pre-made identities to expedite the process?"

"I was just going to copy the structure," I admitted, "but for some reason I decided to go with what I'd prepared instead." I thought for a moment, "I'm still not sure exactly what made me think this particular request required more than just the usual."

"Hmmm, the electronic trail is a bust then," Bond stated.

"Not exactly," I replied. "I may not be able to tell you about his origins but I am able to tell you what he's been up to using this identity over the last several years."

"That's probably more useful for our purposes."

I nodded in agreement.

"To all intents and purposes Mr. Kirkland is a boring civil servant. He has a wide variety of interests locally. He's also interested in a variety of things from abroad ranging from a couple of North American companies, to an artisan pasta manufacturing concern in Italy and some obscure German metalworking artist named Belischmidt. He has a variety of friends but no family except for an older uncle who is a history professor at Kings College."

"Belischmidt," Bond had a reflective look on his face. "I've heard that name before but I can't seem to place it."

I did a quick search.

"Well this artist lives in Canada but he's a German national on some sort of work visa." I dug a little deeper and added, "Looks like he has a relative of some sorts in the German diplomatic corps."

"No, that doesn't ring any bells."

I kept looking.

"One in a million or more exactly one in 20 thousand or so," I idly remarked, "He's got albinism."

"Excuse me?"

"Here," I turned my laptop around, "I found a picture."

Bond looked surprised, "Now that's interesting."

"Oh?"

"He looks a lot like one of the stock photos we use to train agents. Without training the brain tends to focus on the most obvious characteristic, albinism, and misses the details like ear and nose shape, scars and the like."

"Well it's most likely not him." I turned the laptop around again, "That picture is the only good one I could find of the artist."

"Probably not," Bond agreed. "I recall hearing that most of those training photos are digitally modified from ones dating as far back as World War II. Still he has very similar features to the photo if I recall it correctly."

"Enough of that detour," I said as I started working again, "Mr. Kirkland doesn't appear to have any sort of personal connection to the artist other than liking his work. He also seems to like some band out of the Seattle area called Abney Park. No accounting for taste if what I'm seeing really does reflect his tastes and isn't just a smoke screen."

"Do you think it's a smoke screen?"

"No. It all fits together. This is his normal working cover identity. It looks like he only sheds it for a day to a week every other month or so. It's not terribly obvious but there are some gaps in his spending habits that look a lot like the ones we get for agents on short assignment."

I made a mental note to myself. We would need to come up with some sort of algorithm to keep up a normal spending pattern for lower level agents who had London based identities but were on regular out of country rotations. If I could spot that kind of pattern with a bit of work it would probably be highlighted in neon for someone like Fred. The safer the identities were at home the more confident the agents would be in the field. Even better, it might just allow us to get around some of those pesky procurement regulations. No need to financially penalize agents for backstopping their cover after all.

I mentally gave myself a shake. I was getting distracted again. Back to work. I decided to take a cursory look at the friends and family before tackling the Home Office.

Mr. Kirkland's friends were a mixed bag of people from work and university; nothing at all interesting there. The uncle, now that was a different story. A quick look into the personnel files revealed that Professor Bruce Levonson, age 73, had retired from government service some eight years ago. He had been Home Office dealing with legislative issues and prior to that he had been employed as a member of the diplomatic service. If you believed his curriculum vitae, he had been posted to a variety of embassies mostly in Eastern Europe. Looking at the locations, duration and nature of the assignments I suspected that he'd been either been a legitimate diplomatic aide or one of us. Whichever had been the case he'd been low enough level so that the powers that be had decided he could stay in plain sight with his original identity intact.

The professor taught several modern history courses starting with just before World War I and ranging up through the demise of the Berlin Wall. He seemed to be well liked and his classes, while not incredibly popular, were well attended. The only thing of interest was a note that the professor would be unavailable until the end of the month due to a family issue. As far as I had been able to find Mr. Kirkland had been his only living relative. I coded an alert to let me know who accessed his university file and left it. I'd most likely have more luck with the Home Office and if not there Mycroft's systems.

The Home Office systems were a bit more challenging to hack than I had expected. They'd clearly improved their security since the last time I'd been snooping around. Given that over 80% of their information was public with the exception of certain departments they'd been behind the curve for quite a while. I was pleased to see that this was no longer the case.

Mr. Kirkland's personnel file was as I had expected, boring. Similar to Professor Levonson's file there was a note that he had requested and been granted leave for personal issues. I made a mental note to look at both their NHS records. Once again Levonson's old files held the interesting information. What I found tallied with his university CV. I expected the last entry to have been his retirement out brief and clearance but that was not the case. There'd been a full blown security review less than five years ago with no real indication as to why. When I was a low level staffer I'd performed many a cursory review required if we needed to talk to an ex-employee about something in their area of expertise. This level of review, however, was more akin to the one performed on a new branch head at MI6.

My computer alerted. Someone was accessing the university files on Professor Levonson. I quickly switched over and back tracked the access. What the heck did NSY want with…Oh…I sighed.

"Something?" Bond asked.

"Professor Levonson was found in the back of a lorry this morning. He'd been dead for several days it appears. The crime has been linked to a rather bloody warehouse killing they found on Friday. My brother has been consulted."

" _The Ice Man_?" Bond asked.

"No, _The Virgin_ ," I replied abstractedly as I carefully backed out of the NSY server.

Mycroft had acquired _The Iceman_ sobriquet early on in his career due to his ability to appear unmoved by even the most bizarre or heinous events. Sherlock had acquired his _Virgin_ moniker more recently courtesy of Ms. Adler who had applied it and it stuck. Once the 00's and the minions had learned of the familial connection I, not to be left out, became _The Boffin_. Of the three titles it was the closest to the truth. Mycroft hid is caring behind a facade of apparent disinterest. Sherlock, whatever his current relationship status was with John Watson, was definitely not virginal in any sense of the word. As for me, the computer expertise, hair and glasses meant I'd be lucky having _Boffin_ being just my unofficial shorthand referent.

As I shut down the computer I looked up at Bond. He wasn't hiding his reaction. The look on his face appeared to be one part frustration, probably due to the lack of a clear target, and one part amusement? I realized then that I was in danger of being subjected to a bit of the dark humor that agents tended to spout among themselves when management or support staff was not around. I also knew that there were a very few among the agents that realized Q-Branch had a similar brand of wit. Bond was one of them so he wasn't terribly surprised when I beat him to the punchline.

"You could say we've reached somewhat of a dead end."


	10. The Universe is Rarely So Lazy

**Title:** History Lesson

 **Disclaimer:** I own no rights, I make no profit.

* * *

 **Chapter 9 – The Universe is Rarely So Lazy**

Holmes flagged a taxi with his usual success and to my surprise gave Baker Street as the address. I admit I was a bit confused. There was the furniture store/office moving business angle as well as the mention of the weapon's experts which I has supposed would be our next step, especially the latter option, given Holmes' pronouncement upon leaving the car park. Sherlock didn't say anything upon alighting and just plopped himself wordlessly into his chair upon entering the flat. I knew that indicated he was ruminating on something. Sure enough a minute or so later the hands came up entwined, index fingers extended to rest lightly on his lips with his chin propped on his thumbs.

I assessed the situation. He hadn't removed his coat although he had taken off his gloves. His body was tense in the chair, shoulders stiff leaning slightly forward. His lips twitched once, twice, three times before subsiding. I stayed put. This was Sherlock's _planning mode_ and I knew either one or both of us would be off shortly to chase down whatever tidbit of information he had decided to focus on. It didn't take long but I didn't hear the huffy exhale which normally signified the end of the chain of whatever he was thinking. It was a clear signal to me that more data was necessary and it would be up to me to obtain at least some of it.

Sherlock dropped his hands, looked over at me and said, "Intuition," in the same derisive tone of voice that he often used for the word _sentiment_.

"For us mere mortals," I replied, "hunches and intuition are the side effect of our subconscious mind noting patterns."

"One of the functions of my mind palace is to allow me to easily identify patterns in the data and then integrate it with other pieces of relevant information. The system works well except when the information I'm attempting to access does not have many connections to other concepts or ideas." Sherlock grimaced, "In such cases I'm left with the distinct impression that I have missed something that I already know."

I had to ask, "Are you sure you didn't delete it?"

"In that case I would not register that a connection was missing." He thought for a moment, "It's probably stored with all the other pieces of useful but not easily integrated information."

The image this brought to my mind made me smile, "So you've lost whatever piece of information you need in your mental equivalent of the junk drawer?"

Sherlock snorted, "More like a junk room and my _intuition_ tells me I don't have time to go and sort through it all."

"So what do we do if you don't think you have time for an extended mind palace session?"

"You follow up with the weapon's master. Get names if possible of locals skilled enough to pull off that fight in the warehouse. The V&A's catalog entry for the sword is," Sherlock shuffled through a pile of paper on the coffee table and handed me a printout, "here. If we are very lucky one of your contacts might spot something interesting about this particular weapon that would make it unique enough to be worth stealing. Even a rumor or a legend might be helpful in determining why it was taken. At the worst we'll have another group of people who can alert us if it surfaces."

"And you will be?"

"Attempting to find the professor," Sherlock grabbed his laptop. "While the Yard will most likely have something by the end of the week I would prefer to have his identity well before then."

I stood, "I'd best be off then." I said as I shrugged into my jacket again and headed for the door.

Sherlock didn't even acknowledge my remark.

**SH/JW SH/JW WSSH/JHW SH/JW SH/JW**

Four hours, three interviews, two pints, and one demonstration later, but not in that particular order, found me walking back into Baker Street with a list of five names. I could hear Sherlock playing the violin. It sounded melodic and contemplative. His search had been successful I concluded.

I made my way up the seventeen steps to the flat avoiding on habit the one that creaked and slipped into the flat. Living with Sherlock had definitely refined my knowledge of music. I could tell from the structure of the piece that he had a bit more to go. I sat down and gave myself over to listening.

After the last note died away Sherlock looked at me and simply said "Requiem for a Dream; Mansell" before setting down the violin and loosening the bow.

"That's relatively recent?"

"Movie of the same name released in 2000," he said as he worked to put the instrument away in its case.

I was always surprised by the breadth of what Sherlock would play. While he tended to rely heavily on the classical his virtuosity included folk songs, wildly avant-garde composers, rock bands and even a video game theme or two. It therefore did not surprise me that a movie soundtrack would be in and amongst his repertoire.

Given the name of the piece and its somber tone I took a wild guess, "You identified the professor?"

"Bruce Levonson, Professor of Modern History, Oxford. I already texted Lestrade and my brother."

"And?" I knew that wouldn't be all of it.

"Age 73. Retired from the diplomatic service at age 65 but back on the payroll part time as of five years ago with a substantially increased security clearance."

I asked the obvious question, "Why?"

"Mycroft e-mailed the official file. Allegedly he was reviewing fiction produced by current and prior Home Office employees prior to publication to make sure the Official Secrets Act had not been violated."

Once again the question was clear, "Allegedly?"

"There are enough anomalies in his employment agreement to allow him access to much more that what would be needed to perform pre-publication review. No, he was doing something else as well."

"Any ideas?"

"Actually yes," Sherlock cocked his head at me. "From time to time various agencies write classified histories of certain events, operations or the highlights and failures of a particular era or the tenure of a government official. They are mostly used for training purposes. Given the nature of the vetting process, the level of clearance and those anomalies, Professor Levonson was most likely researching and writing one of those histories." He grimaced and added, "I'm having Mycroft confirm. I'm sure there is a paper file hidden in some classified cabinet that will show exactly what he was doing."

I was a bit surprised at the lack of snide comments from Sherlock when he mentioned Mycroft. While the brother's relationship had been improving over time it was still punctuated by what I characterized as obnoxious sibling jibes. I'd often wondered if it had started as some sort of a game where they kept track of when they _one upped_ the other and to what degree. Maybe there was even a point system. Keeping an official score would definitely be in character for the two of them. I made a mental note to ask Q about it.

I decided to focus on the other piece of information Sherlock had imparted, "You are telling me that the Home Office has part-time Historians writing training scenarios?"

Sherlock's head snapped around, " _The Historian_ ," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"Mycroft's top secret protocol."

I remembered.

"The one that said he was supposed to take precautions and notify _The Historian_?"

"Exactly."

"But how do we know if this Levonson guy is _The Historian_ referred to in the protocol?" I asked, "There could be dozens of these folks scattered throughout the government. Heck, for all we know researching and recording certain events for posterity could be a single line item on some low level functionary's job description."

"Another task for Mycroft's people," Sherlock grabbed his phone and started texting.

I decided that tea was in order so I went and made some. By the time I got back Sherlock had put his phone down on the table presumably after a lengthy exchange of texts.

"Where did you end up beside the Crown and Garter?" He asked as I handed him a mug of tea.

Knowing Sherlock I immediately looked down at my shoes. Sure enough there was a bit of something on the inside of one of my trainers. Well that splotch of mud had probably narrowed down the area of London for him and my movements to make tea, my breath or both would have told him that I'd been drinking but I still couldn't fathom how he'd managed to get the name of the pub. I sat down and looked at him quizzically.

"I looked at your e-mail. The Crown and Garter is near the dojo owned by one of the people your friend recommended you talk to. It's the farthest away and all the others potential contacts were physically in between here and there. You generally avoid backtracking..." he trailed off looking at me. Whatever he saw in my face must have reassured him because he continued, "The mud was helpful as was the distinctive smell of Weiss bier."

"Amazing!"

Despite the fact that he'd determined where I was going from my e-mails with Sensi Brian it was still impressive that he knew not only what and where I'd been drinking all based on some mud and the dojo's general location. Although I did have to wonder how he knew that the Crown and Garter was the only establishment serving German wheat beer within easy walking distance of the dojo. It seemed like something that would be deleted as soon as he acquired the information.

Something of my train of thought must have shown on my face because Sherlock suddenly looked away as if embarrassed and muttered, "You like Weiss bier."

Oh. I decided to ignore that comment and the implications in favor of giving Sherlock a precis of what I'd found out.

"Well," I figured I'd better start at the beginning, "I started calling around when I left and the first one who was available to talk to me was Mr. Reyes."

"The reenactment enthusiast," Sherlock stated proving that he had indeed read and added the information from the e-mail exchanges into his ever burgeoning case dataset.

"Yep." I popped the "p" in an imitation of Sherlock's habit and got an amused snort in return for my impression.

"He's rather well known in the historical reenactment community for his sword work but his real passion is forging methods," I continued. "He was marginally familiar the weapons primarily due to the dagger."

"Hmm," Sherlock now had his eyes closed as he sometimes did when acquiring information but he made a little _go on motion_ with his fingers.

"The sword is apparently completely average for its era of forging but the dagger is based on some rather famous style from the Middle East."

When I'd asked for more information, Jason Reyes had devolved into some rather technical details about early medieval forging techniques and steel composition. I had dutifully written it all down for Sherlock so I pulled out my notes and read them.

The gist of the matter was as follows: There were some rare weapons from the period of our missing pieces which were of a unique composition and construction which made them sharper and stronger than their contemporary counterparts. Those types of weapons tended to be imported as the techniques and steel were not generally available in Britannia however there did appear to be a few local artisans who made reasonable knock-offs. Mr. Reyes suspected that the dagger was one of these locally manufactured facsimiles. He also mentioned in passing that the hotbed of these knock-offs back in the day seemed to be in Berkshire and may have been somehow tied into the old Neolithic barrow called Weyland's Smithy.

From there we'd digressed into a discussion of sword myths and legends. The mythological Nordic smith Weyland has been credited in song and story with making everything from Beowulf's armor to magic rings and any number of hero's swords. Reyes had even heard one tale that credited him with making Excalibur of Arthurian legend. Reyes thought that most of the attributions were basically early marketing attempts to jack up the price of a particular weapon. His reasoning was that what self-respecting well off warrior wouldn't pay more for something forged by a legendary smith?

Since he'd brought it up I had, on a whim, asked him for his opinion on the whole Excalibur and the Lady of the Lake story. Reyes' take was rather prosaic. He figured that the story was mostly a tall tale loosely based on the exploits of some Welsh border warlord in post Roman Britain who happened to have a rather distinctive looking sword. Now there was no way some minor warlord from the back side of nowhere was going to win against the fighting forces who had managed to kick the Romans out of the British Isles, therefore there must have been some sort of ordained prophesy and of course a magic sword. All and all he put the original Arthurian legends down to an astute piece of propaganda to bolster the British against the Saxons. By the time you get to Mallory's romantic translation of the Vulgate Cycle in the early 1600's, Reyes was of the opinion that the story bore little reference to historical events and was almost completely fabricated.

I glossed over most of the myth and legend discussion for Sherlock by commenting that I'd spent some time cultivating the man just in case Sherlock wanted to talk to him later.

"Your interview with Mr. Edwards was also fruitful," Sherlock stated it as a fact.

"I actually walked in on a training fight," I replied. "It was rather interesting. From what I saw Tyler Edwards, Ethan Watts and Kieran Thompson could all have produced the results we saw in the warehouse."

"I hear an incipient _but_ "

"After they finished and I started asking about the missing weapons Watts and Thompson had a rather extensive discussion about the in differences fighting with a sword/dagger combination of that vintage. Edwards has an extensive collection of training weapons so they unearthed a reasonable facsimile and tried it out. They only got up to half speed on some sort of training kata and even I could tell Watts was struggling. He said it was all about the weight. The Italian style rapiers they had been using when I came in were much thinner and lighter."

"A lighter blade would not have resulted in the wounds on the bodies," Sherlock once again stated his conclusion from the morgue as a fact.

"I don't think so," I agreed. "Rapiers are more of a stabbing weapon than a cutting one."

"Hmmm," Sherlock responded and I took that as my cue to continue.

"Watts and Thompson had to leave but Edwards invited me out for a pint."

"The Crown and Garter."

"Edwards has a sister that works swing shift in the secretarial pool at the Yard."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the apparent non sequitur.

"When you went to look at those records the other night she was on duty and put your presence together with what the Yard gossips have labeled _Lestrade's Sword Massacre_. She had mentioned it to her brother in law as a potential consulting opportunity if he was interested and they needed an expert once you'd solved the thing."

Sherlock sighed, "And then you show up asking about swords; any idiot could jump to the conclusion that I am looking for a murder weapon."

"He's definitely not an idiot. Edwards noted my interest in both training bouts and figured I was looking for names of people skilled enough with a sword and dagger to take on several men at once in a fight."

Sherlock cocked his head.

"He didn't even ask for confirmation. He just gave me a list of names off the top of his head. Watts and Thompson were the first two followed by Brendan Cox, David Powell, and Arthur Kirkland. He also mentioned both and Mr. Reyes and Andy Bailey in passing as long shots. Reyes being too old and Bailey had moved up into the midlands a couple of years ago following a job."

"Kirkland," Sherlock sat up in his chair. "Arthur Kirkland, I've seen that name recently."

He grabbed his computer.

It was only a moment before he said, "Hah! Arthur Kirkland is listed as Professor Levonson's great nephew. From the contact information provided as part of the security screening he's a low level diplomat attached to the Office of International Cultural Exchange."

"The what?"

Sherlock typed a bit, "They interface with arts groups, bands, ballet companies, and theater troops who aren't big enough to have their own contacts. It looks like they work mostly for outbound groups but occasionally for folks coming into the country from non EU or commonwealth nations." Sherlock handed me the computer.

It was a generic government website explaining in glowing terms this small obscure government office. Something caught my eye.

"Hey, did you catch the fact that there seems to be an international association of people who expedite cultural exchanges on behalf of their respective governments? If I were writing a spy novel I'd use something like this for secret backdoor communications or maybe even a cover for espionage operations."

"Too obvious," remarked Sherlock as he looked up from texting on his mobile. "But, since the universe is rarely so lazy I've asked Mycroft to forward me Mr. Kirkland's file."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Gentle Readers, the draft is complete and the final chapter count is 14 full chapters (15 if you count the prologue). Posting will therefore be a bit faster since it takes less time to edit than it does to draft.


	11. Swords and Secrets

**Title:** History Lesson

 **Disclaimer:** I own no rights, I make no profit.

* * *

 **Chapter 10 – Swords and Secrets**

Bond's reaction to my bad pun was interesting. Either I was getting better at reading his barely existent tells or he was letting me see his mental state. I concluded that it was more likely the latter than the former but whichever it was he was very definitely amused.

"Have you really come to a standstill at this point?" He asked.

"No, actually I think I might be onto something. The linked warehouse case lists the suspected cause of death as numerous cuts with a heavy sharp object and potential blood loss. Reading between the lines, a sword fight."

"Sword fight?" Bond reached over and touched the hilt of the sword which I, for some reason hadn't realized, was currently sitting on the table.

"Um hum," I responded. "Next thing to look at is the autopsy report."

As I brought up the report Bond unsheathed the sword from its makeshift scabbard and examined it closely.

"If it was this sword," he commented, "it's been thoroughly cleaned."

Just as he spoke I found a precise set of measurements in the report I was reading.

"Let me see that," I indicated the sword.

Bond put it flat on the table. While I didn't have a ruler or a tape measure I did know the exact length of a variety of my body parts so I could get a relatively good estimate of the sword's dimensions. After a bit of measurement I concluded that this sword could indeed have made the wounds noted in the autopsy.

As I looked up Bond read the conclusion off my face and asked, "If the idea was to set me up, why clean the sword?"

That sparked an additional question for me.

"And why only plant the sword without any other evidence?"

Bond cocked his head, "If you were setting this up, what other evidence would you have planted?"

I thought for a moment, "Cleaning supplies for the sword. Put an obviously bloody rag in the in the basement roller bin to enable NSY to connect the sword to the bodies. Indications of familiarity with the warehouse in some form or fashion would be useful. I'd also put plans in your computer detailing how you got the sword out of the V&A."

I looked back at the autopsy report, "Oh, and I'd plant the dagger in the flat also."

"Dagger?"

"Yes, not only was a dagger stolen from the same case but there were also indications that a dagger was used in the sword fight."

"I'd put something at one or the other crime scene which would lead them to me," Bond commented. "It wouldn't require much since the propensity for the Yard to call your brother in for _the weird ones_ is well known. I don't think NSY gets too many deaths by the sword in this day and age."

"I didn't see anything in the reports which would point to you."

"The more information you've uncovered," Bond stated, "the less sense planting the sword in my flat makes."

"It definitely doesn't make sense," I agreed. "If that indeed is the murder weapon," I pointed at the sword, "What was the purpose of removing it from the scene and planting it in your flat if not to frame you for the crime?"

We both silently stared at the sword on the table for a bit.

Suddenly Bond chuckled, "Maybe whomever stole it wanted me to keep it for its owner!"

I had to smile in response, "Only if you believe in prophetic recurring dreams and I know you didn't volunteer that one in your most recent Psyc eval."

"You are the only person I've told about that one Q," Bond replied, "and we both know how good your privacy protections are."

"Well, now that we've gone so far as to postulate a supernatural explanation," I concluded, "Let me see what less improbable tidbits I can find."

Of course Bond had to get in the last word in the discussion.

"Don't discount the supernatural just yet Q," he laughed. "What is the phrase your brother uses? Something about excluding the impossible until you find that the unlikely happens to be correct?"

I didn't bother to respond.

00Q/00Q 00Q/00Q 00Q/00Q

After a couple of hours of research I ended up sitting back in my chair. While I had found additional information, it still didn't make any sense. I'm not sure if I made a noise or if it was serendipity but Bond appeared and handed me a cup of tea.

"Frustrated?" he asked.

"All I have are a bunch of disparate facts which may or may not be related in any way shape or form and which don't add up to make any larger picture. I feel as if I'm doing a jigsaw puzzle and over half the pieces have been replaced with those of a completely different puzzle. I don't know how Sherlock deals with this!"

Bond chuckled, "Badly according to John."

My mental processes were effectively derailed by the implications of that simple statement. I knew John and James were friends but good enough friends for John to complain about my brother? Even worse, would James reciprocate and complain about…but we weren't…and they weren't at least as far as I could tell…so how in the heck?

"John has a rather well defined Sherlock frustration meter," James explained. "Usually it manifests itself in his violin playing habits. When he gets to a certain level he plays avant-garde works. From there it escalates to atonal and finally to something John refers to as _torturing cats_."

Having been the inadvertent recipient of some of Sherlock's impromptu concerts I could agree with that last assessment. Bond wasn't done however.

"John has mentioned that when it gets into the atonal and _cat torture_ stage that it sometimes helps if he talks out his reasoning up to the point where the frustration started."

I could see that also. The problem, of course, would be getting Sherlock to verbalize his thought processes without a large number of gratuitous insults aimed at the listener. Regardless, Bond's point was well taken so I moved back from the computer, cradled my tea and started talking.

"Chronologically about 5 years ago there was an opening in the office that provides pre-publication review to avoid violation of the Official Secrets Act. Generally, each agency has a group in house that does this but the Home Office has some specialized folks doing oversight and cross-agency checking. The Home Office people are usually buried in some obscure bureau for security purposes since they, by the nature of the job, end up looking at all sorts of classified and even eyes-only information. For the same reason they also end up passing an extensive background check, similar to what we do for the more sensitive positions."

I paused for a sip of tea while Bond snorted. I'm sure he was remembering how people were vetted to get into the 00 program.

"Timewise the background checks for this position and the alleged date of CIA's old list match up."

"Of course just because you say you are vetting for one position," Bond commented.

"Doesn't mean that's what you are actually doing or that the position itself is exactly as advertised. However there are just too many coincidences on this."

Bond nodded, "So you are currently presuming that the candidates for this position were on the improperly erased list."

"Presuming is the operative word," I replied. "The CIA did a bang up job of eliminating it the second time around. As far as I can tell the contents of that list were only known to the sender, the leaker and to whomever he sold it."

"I hear an incipient _but_ "

"But I was able to get ahold of a few of the names that were being vetted during that period from other places on our side. One of them was Professor Levonson."

"Interesting."

"Even more interesting is that the position allegedly to be filled was in the department that requested the legend for Mr. Kirkland."

"Coincidence?" Bond asked.

"Don't know. A week ago Thursday, the very day the CIA notified Kirkland about the leak of the list, Professor Levonson requests emergency family leave starting the next Monday."

"So how does how end up found dead in a lorry this morning?"

"Unclear but the timing and how some of the events are related tells an interesting story."

Bond looked at me clearly attempting to put things together in his head, "I'm clearly missing some facts."

"Levonson requests leave to start on Monday. The lorry he was found in was picked up on CCTV at the warehouse where the sword fight occurred late Sunday night through midday Monday. The initial report on Levonson's death indicates that he died that Monday or maybe as late as Tuesday. The V&A theft was early Tuesday morning around 00:30 and the sword fight most likely occurred sometime during the day or early evening on Tuesday," I ticked off the events on my fingers. "The V&A theft wasn't located until Thursday morning and the sword fight crime scene was found on Saturday."

Bond looked like he was going to say something but I continued before he could open his mouth.

"In addition, one of the bodies involved in the sword fight just happened to be the guy who picked up the lorry from a dealer in the midlands the week before, just after he'd quit his job. The other two bodies were relatively recent arrivals from either the U.S. or Canada. I'd put my bet on Canada though because the CIA traced one of the leaker's frequent contacts to Ottawa before they lost the trail."

"They get a line on any other potential buyers?" Bond asked.

"Croatia, Egypt and Iowa," I replied. "They couldn't tell if they were actual buyers or just interested. All four potentials were highly skilled. I might have been able to get farther than the CIA did if I'd been on it at the time. At this date there's nothing much I can do without direct access to the servers involved. Any outbound information has been long overwritten by more recent internet traffic."

Bond thought for a moment then switched topics.

"If this is the sword used Tuesday then why not return it to the V&A since neither the theft nor the crime scene had been discovered at that point? Do you think planting it in my flat was an afterthought?"

"Who knows," I shrugged. "Regardless, there are another couple of tidbits that appear related but don't quite fit. Kirkland, who by the way had just returned from a two week holiday, also requested emergency family leave starting on Friday the day after he received the CIA's notice and there's no electronic trail after an ATM withdrawal late Saturday."

"Kirkland is a legend. The CIA's notification may have indicated his cover was compromised. You think he ditched it and went to ground? "

"It's one potential explanation," I agreed, "but it could just as easily been foul play of some sort."

Bond snorted, "Like that doesn't happen way too often for comfort in our business."

"Tell me about it. If all that wasn't enough," I sighed, "Professor Levonson just happens to be related by marriage to the family that donated the sword and dagger to the V&A."

With that I stopped talking and looked at Bond, wondering what he made of my synopsis. Bond was looking at the sword as if it held the secrets of the universe then he started to smile.

"Since you've exhausted the electronic trail, it's probably time for a bit of old fashioned fieldwork. You up for a bit of housebreaking Q?"

I could see his point, "I have an address for Kirkland that looks like it's a legitimate flat. Whether or not it really is his flat I suppose we can check it out."

00Q/00Q 00Q/00Q 00Q/00Q

I had downloaded the building plans before we did anything. It was a relatively new building with decent security. Bond insisted that we go and put _eyes on_ the place so we'd have a good idea exactly what we'd be dealing with. Of course, since he was still playing bodyguard, we packed everything vital into the boot and I came along. We got lucky. Someone was finishing up moving in and there was a lot of traffic in and out of the service entrance. We took the opportunity provided and slipped into the building.

Now despite what Bond thinks I am not helpless in the field. In fact, if I put my mind to it, I suspect that I'd favorably compare to most of the A list agents. I wouldn't be able to touch the 00s but then again you didn't get the kind of edge they had without a huge amount of field time and numerous life threatening situations. Overriding the electronic lock on Kirkland's flat took less than a minute with Bond keeping watch.

I'm not quite sure what exactly I was expecting but the flat did appear to have been occupied recently. Judging from the mail and other detritus of daily living the Kirkland persona was what I tended to call a primary cover. It was the kind of thing we would set up for a seriously long term placement or for someone who needed a completely separate _real_ life. It was standard operating procedure for defectors and others in protective status. In fact, my outside the MI6 office persona was just such a cover.

I spied a computer and proceeded to examine it as Bond cleared the rest of the flat. As I had expected Kirkland hadn't touched either this computer or his on-line accounts since Friday.

"Someone has searched the flat," Bond stated flatly.

"Oh?" I replied noncommittally even though I'd reached the same conclusion.

"They were good and they had time. I suspect they wanted Kirkland to know his flat had been searched but not to tip off the average person looking about."

"Good thing neither you nor I are average." I pointedly shut the computer down and asked, "What tipped you off?"

"The bedroom, especially the state of the closet and the drawers," he replied.

Bond had moved to the messy table and was carefully looking at a pile of what appeared to be mail. He looked up at me then pointed at a plain envelope that was sitting on the top of the pile.

"Hand me a fork and knife will you?"

I was a little confused. We were both wearing gloves so why did Bond not want to touch the envelope?

I complied but asked, "Contact poison?"

"Potential aerosol distribution device, I've run into them before. They are set up to spray a powdered substance in your face if the envelope is opened normally."

"Not terribly effective as a delivery system but I could see it as a way to send a message."

Bond used the cutlery to open the envelope and relaxed. Clearly there was nothing untoward. What Bond had assumed was a mechanical trap had been merely the result of someone putting the paper into the envelope hurriedly. He set aside the implements and removed the slightly crumpled piece of paper inside.

It was a handwritten note in the center of a full sized sheet of paper. It rambled and looked like someone had dribbled something onto the paper over the writing.

Bond snorted, "A skip code in this day and age?"

He handed me the paper and I got a faint whiff of a scent. Bond was correct, the code was pretty obvious. Those dribbles started the skip pattern. It read: _The arms have been stolen for over a week._ _You have them. I want them. Let's see if we can do business._ All in all a seriously helpful message, I thought sarcastically. _Context will often keep a secret better than a code_ was a maxim Mycroft had imparted to me when I was relatively young and it appeared to be true in this case. My brain helpfully started running through bits and pieces of my childhood. Sherlock had always wanted to play pirates but Mycroft, when he deigned to play with us, inevitably turned whatever we were doing into some sort of learning puzzle.

Suddenly I had an idea. I carefully sniffed the paper then looked around on the table. Sure enough there was an old fashioned fountain pen. I picked it up. It was sticky and smelled faintly of lemon. I handed the pen to Bond who cocked his head at me questioningly.

"You never wrote secret messages as a kid?"

He got it then and started looking around took the lampshade off one of the lamps. A couple of minutes later we had some coordinates as well as a time and date for the meeting.


	12. Burglary, Danger, Reward?

**Title:** History Lesson

 **Disclaimer:** I own no rights, I make no profit.

* * *

 **Chapter 11 – Burglary, Danger, Reward?**

I didn't expect the response we got from Mycroft about Mr. Kirkland's file. The initial response was a simple texted _Yes_. Some twenty minutes later he phoned. After a rather terse conversation Sherlock informed me that his brother had run into complications.

"Complications?" I asked.

Sherlock waived his hand vaguely in the air, "Something about security clearances and mandates that particular files must not be digitized."

I had to chuckle, "So the Office of International Cultural Exchange really is a front for espionage!" I teased.

Sherlock looked sour. He absolutely hated to be proven wrong in an assumption.

"It's more likely one of Mycroft's backdoor information conduits."

"Can't be," I retorted, "Otherwise your brother would have had the information at his fingertips and there wouldn't have been a delay. No I'm keeping with my initial assessment this is a cover for spies."

Sherlock gave me a look, "Really John with all the trashy fiction you read I thought you knew that MI 6 uses an import/export business as a cover."

"As if your brother would go with something so cliché!"

Sherlock now seemed amused, "I concede the point."

"ETA for the file?"

"About an hour and a half," Sherlock responded. "Even the courier has to have certain clearance."

That gave me an idea.

"Chinese?"

"Thai."

I hadn't expected him to agree to eat given his normal stance that digesting hinders his cognitive processes. Then again, this case had been an anomaly so far. I just hoped that the file wouldn't arrive before the food because then I would have no chance in hell of getting any sustenance into him in the foreseeable future.

**SH/JW SH/JW WSSH/JHW SH/JW SH/JW**

I lucked out. The food had arrived and Sherlock had actually consumed more than just the bare minimum before the courier made it. The courier was a sober young man in a nondescript suit, briefcase discretely attached to his arm with something looking like a cross between handcuffs and an electronic tracking anklet. He was also armed. I settled him on the sofa where he biometrically unlocked the briefcase and pulled out something that looked like a log upon which he made some notations.

He then extracted two relatively thin files, offering them to Sherlock saying "Eyes only Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock was already opening the first file as he grunted his ascent.

I didn't bother to offer tea. The courier couldn't or wouldn't accept it if my much maligned spy novels were correct. I also figured, given the security precautions, that I was not authorized to view the files so I just sat and observed.

Sherlock went through the files at speed the first time. I figured he was somehow storing them in his mind palace for perusal later. He then went through them a second time slowly, presumably sifting and analyzing the contents for relevance. At the end of the second reading he ended up looking at particular pages in each file clearly comparing something. Finally he made that breathy exhale which signified the end of a chain of thought, closed the files and handed them back to the courier.

The courier made another set of notations, placed everything back in the briefcase, pulled out a mobile, texted something then left without saying another word.

"Well?" I asked as soon as I was sure the courier had cleared the building.

"Officially Kirkland is the contact and interface person with other governments for the Office of International Cultural Exchange. His primary job appears to be interfacing with his counterparts usually face to face about once a quarter in various locations. New York and Brussels seem to be the most often frequented sites but Moscow, Tokyo and even London were mentioned."

"Unofficially?"

"Your spy hypothesis is most likely correct. He's been all over; practically anywhere we have an official presence or interests. Professor Levonson seems to have been a cross between handler and chronicler of his exploits."

I raised an eyebrow, "Those files were too thin to have much about exploits in them."

"Just the occasional reference, the actual records are stored in a secure archive somewhere in Whitehall."

"So did you get anything useful out of all that?" I asked.

Sherlock grinned at me.

"A home address; you up for a spot of burglary later this evening?"

"Oh god yes!"

**SH/JW SH/JW WSSH/JHW SH/JW SH/JW**

It was only a couple hours later that we set out on our housebreaking expedition. Sherlock had ditched his normal sartorial splendor for dark jeans, a tight t-shirt and leather biker jacket. Of course, even dressed down Sherlock still looked like he'd be welcome in any establishment except one that mandated a tie. The way the denim hugged his rear there was nothing much left to the imagination. His hair was artfully arranged in a way that screamed _I just rolled out of bed this gorgeous_. I felt sure that if he showed up in a line for a nightclub he'd be ushered in the VIP entrance on looks alone. On the way out the door I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. I looked like a slightly worn teddy-bear standing next to a window manikin for a famous fashion designer.

Of course Sherlock noticed my glance in the mirror and the accompanying minute grimace.

"People will see but not observe," he remarked. "Assumptions will be made about me and no one will notice you at all. Besides, all I have to do is this," he moved to stand beside me.

To this day I'm not quite sure exactly what he did but in half a step he went from upscale cloths horse to slightly disreputable delivery person.

He grinned at me in the mirror spoiling the effect, "and they still won't notice you!"

I rolled my eyes, "That's me the invisible sidekick."

"No John," Sherlock continued grinning, "essential backup, chronicler, and conductor of light! Not my problem that people can't discern what is standing right in front of them. Come," he turned in a manner that would have flared the Bestaff dramatically if he'd been wearing it, "the game's afoot!"

"'Cry God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'" I muttered as I followed him out the door.

**SH/JW SH/JW WSSH/JHW SH/JW SH/JW**

It took us over two hours to get to Mr. Kirkland's apartment block. We had meandered about, seemingly randomly, punctuated by sudden changes of speed, direction and method of travel. By the time we arrived I think we had managed to use every method of transport available in London including some suspiciously placed bicycles. I suspected that even Sherlock's brother with all the resources of MI 6 would have had difficulty in following our trail.

When we arrived we discovered our first obstacle, a security guard. Sherlock made an annoyed noise under his breath as we walked by the front door. A couple blocks later he darted into an alley and turned to look at me.

"I have an idea on how to get in but you may not like it," he stated bluntly.

"Oh?"

Sherlock shifted a bit. If I didn't know better I'd have said he was slightly embarrassed.

"It involves some blatant PDA."

I raised my eyebrows, "How blatant?"

" _In danger of getting an ASBO for public indecency if we don't find a room quick_ blatant," he replied.

Well, I thought to myself, we'd done stranger things to get into places. The one that immediately came to mind was the time we crashed a costume party to retrieve some documents for a client. Sherlock was in drag as Red Sonja and I was in leather as Conan. I had to smile. What had really been funny was that we'd managed to retrieve the documents without being discovered but half way home Lestrade had called with a decapitation murder where all he had was the victim's head. The looks we got when we arrived at the scene were good but the look on the perpetrator's face when Sherlock brought him to bay, victim's head firmly attached to his belt, was absolutely priceless.

"Ok," I said. "How exactly do you want to do this? Handsy down the alley and passionate snog against the back door?"

Sherlock looked relieved that I hadn't objected.

"You'll need to block the camera with your body. If we are lucky the lock will be electronic and I won't have to pick it."

Sherlock turned and I followed. In a couple of turns he paused and held out his arm. I got the message and snuggled into his lean body putting my hand into the back pocket of his jeans. I turned him a little so that it was clear from the body language just who was taking the lead. In step we rounded the corner. About half way to the back door of the block of flats I squeezed Sherlock's arse then ran my hand up his back to the nape of his neck and pulled his head down for a kiss. I'm not quite sure how I expected Sherlock to respond but what I got was a minor startle, a bit of awkward fumbling into the kiss then suddenly, relaxation and reciprocation.

It was simultaneously way too short and way to long. When we broke the kiss Sherlock had his eyes closed and rested his forehead on mine.

I turned my head and moved my nose to his neck then whispered in his ear, "Where's the camera?" while nibbling at his earlobe.

That earned me a surprised groan and a grab that brought us even closer together.

"Above…door," Sherlock gasped before turning his head and kissing me back.

The next few minutes were interesting to say the least. We somehow managed to stumble to the door. I was finding hard trying to remember that we were _just acting_ to get into the building. I wasn't quite sure but it seemed that Sherlock was having similar difficulties. I don't know if I was relieved or disappointed that the electronic lock quickly surrendered to whatever gadget Sherlock employed.

We almost fell into the hall. Sherlock grabbed my hand and led me at a half run to a flat door. This door also opened to whatever Sherlock had in his other hand. He pulled me inside closed the door, flicked on the light, then put his hands on his knees breathing heavily. I took a couple of deep breaths myself and wondered just how I was going to hide my arousal. I glanced at Sherlock who was looking back at me, pupils dilated panting slightly.

"Not gay?" he sounded a bit stunned.

I just smiled.

"Not straight," he muttered still looking dazed.

Then I saw the moment when his formidable intellect came back fully on line.

He took a deep breath, grimaced, and added, "And unfortunately not now!"

I had to agree. Most definitely not now. I turned my attention to the flat. Nothing immediately caught my attention as being out of the ordinary so I started watching Sherlock. He hadn't moved from our original position just inside the door but he was slowly turning in place.

"We are not the first," he said then carefully moved further into the flat.

I trailed him. As we strolled through the flat he started muttering to himself about things not making sense. By the time we had made it to the eating area which seemed to double as a mail and junk repository I had the gist. Mr. Kirkland, while having many modern conveniences, seemed to ignore many of them. He also was a collector of minor antiquities all of which had seen recent use rather than being treated as the one of a kind treasures that they were. The muttering trailed off as Sherlock looked at the table. The resulting humph sounded like he'd confirmed a hypothesis.

"Enlighten me."

"There have been three people or groups of people here in the last few days. We only missed the last by less than an hour."

"Walk me through it."

"Group number one consisted of at least two people, judging from the carpet in the bedroom. They searched the place professionally but were intentionally messy enough to tip off the owner that the flat had been searched. Group number two may have been a single person. They looked over the flat, messed with the computer then focused on the table. They took precautions opening something," Sherlock pointed at some utensils sitting on the table next to an envelope that had been slit open. "They took it over to the lamp," he pointed at a lamp in the sitting area which had a lampshade slightly askew, "took it back to the table and then left."

"Group three?" I asked.

"Maybe Mr. Kirkland himself or someone familiar with him. Walked in, stopped, noted the disarray then investigated the table. He picked up the note and…."

Sherlock looked around miming crumpling a piece of paper and tossing it down. He then went over to the sofa and fished a crumpled ball of paper out of its resting place between the cushions.

"Amazing," I said.

Sherlock grinned back at me, "Thick carpet and once a week cleaning service is most illuminating especially if the Cretans at the yard haven't tromped all over it."

"So what's the note and why did it get crumpled up?"

"Let's see," said Sherlock who brought the paper over to the kitchen counter and carefully spread it out.

It was a stained piece of normal paper, probably from the computer printer. It seemed to be part of a report about antiquities sales that someone had spattered coffee, tea or some other drops of dark liquid on as well as something that looked like a bunch of numbers had been burned in the margin.

"GPS coordinates and a time," Sherlock indicated the burned numbers, "but for what?"

He looked at the text again then suddenly said, "This is juvenile. Secret messages written with lemon juice and a skip code. Someone is playing at spies."

"Or making sure that the message was received," I ventured. "What does the message say?"

Sherlock looked at the paper and read, " _The arms have been stolen for over a week._ _You have them. I want them. Let's see if we can do business."_

I stated the obvious, "Someone thinks Mr. Kirkland has our missing V&A weaponry and wants to buy them."

"And there is an offer to meet at the indicated location," Sherlock looked around and his gaze lighted on a clock on the microwave, "just over an hour from now. Shall we go and see who turns up?"

I grimaced, "not without some sort of emergency backup. This is strange enough that I don't want to get caught spying on someone else's dealings without a clear line of retreat. The original burglary and the murders mean that someone involved is very sophisticated as well as deadly with bladed weapons. That doesn't even count the fact that we have a third interested party who had the means and knowledge to get in here and find the letter first. We are going to need more than just me and my quasi-legal firearm."

Sherlock actually took a moment to consider my objections. Over the years we'd worked together he'd slowly learned to take my assessment of the relative danger in a particular situation seriously.

He sighed, "I suppose we should utilize the resources my brother has at his disposal. I just hope his people are as good at moving fast as he would like to think they are."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** The reference to the costume party is a shout out to "What Didn't Happen" by Katzedecimal (found over on AO3).


	13. Albion Rising

**Title:** History Lesson

 **Disclaimer:** I own no rights, I make no profit.

* * *

 **Chapter 12 – Albion Rising**

If it hadn't been for Mint, Sapphire and their kinfolk I don't think I could have done it. Regaining my previous form in under a week and being functional required a lot of power focused properly. Luckily the magic of the isles had not been heavily tapped in the years since the destruction of the second Great War. Unlike many of my compatriots I only had to deal with relatively localized damage as opposed to the major swatches of devastation that had been the eastern and western fronts. All of which meant there was sufficient power to expeditiously allow me access to my standard adult form. It would need to be enough.

I stood in the corner of the warehouse and waited. Through the continued generosity of my friends I had a glamor that would hide me from most all denizens of the isles. I suspected that it was strong enough so the only ones who would be able to sense me would be my daughter or perhaps one of my fellow aspects had they been physically present. Once again I mentally thanked Goodfellow and his progeny for their assistance.

My knight and the youngest Holmes were the first to arrive. They settled with Q up in the rafters, sniper rifle at the ready. I knew he would be able to put a bullet through anyone on the open area of the warehouse floor. Bond, armed to the teeth and carrying my sword in a jury rigged harness on his back, prowled around until he located a position on the top of a pile of crates. He was clearly betting on the truism that criminals, like policemen, rarely looked up on the first pass of a search. I saw a flash of green near Bond's position. Oh, interesting. Mint had decided to place a minor glamour on the crates. I suspected it was something simple. A command that in effect said _don't bother looking up, there's nothing to see up here_.

I heard the sound of several car doors and extended my senses. There were a number of people getting out of the cars. I didn't ask the ground for information on them just yet. No, I'd wait and see who actually entered the building first. Only three walked in. The rest spread out as a defensive perimeter. I'd deal with them later if necessary.

The one in the lead was one of mine, Graham Hayden, the land told me. A resident of the midlands, a collector and the head of some sort of criminal enterprise was all it said. I could tell that the second, Trevor Thomson, was a typical midland's brawler nothing more, nothing less. The third was female. The land was having trouble identifying her. Clearly she wasn't one of mine otherwise it would have a name and pertinent details for me rather quickly. Ah, finally something came through. Not a name but more of a sense of kinship? Probably from a commonwealth country, one of Matthew's perhaps, but the connection was tenuous. From that I suspected that she was either a mercenary or had a profession that required travel from point to point to the extent that no place really felt like home. I'd seen this before especially in flight attendants, pilots and other folk who fell into the _if this is Tuesday it must be Belgium_ lifestyle. It was very easy for such folks to lose connection if there wasn't something to them firmly to their country be it belief, a job, or people.

As I got a good look at the trio I realized that I recognized Hayden. I'd met him before briefly. It had been at some sort of cultural event in Birmingham. We'd had a brief chat about a couple of historical documents on display. I wondered briefly if his involvement was coincidental to that meeting or not.

They came to a stop and the bodyguards made a cursory round of the warehouse floor. The male investigated the crates but didn't once look up. The female passed close enough to me that I could smell her perfume. The glamor held and she walked right by me. That was when I got the second surprise. She was not only carrying a firearm but also a sword and dagger.

"No one over here boss," said the male.

"Doesn't look like anyone has been here in some time," the female chimed in gesturing at the dust on floor.

Saphire grinned at me from behind one of the crates and I knew who had erased Bond and Q's footprints in the dust and dirt.

"Do you really expect someone to show?" the male asked

"If we are lucky it will be the current guardian of the sword, Mr. Kirkland," Graham replied. "If we are unlucky then you will be ready with the contingency."

Well that explained a few things. Mr. Hayden was not only after my sword but he wanted to use it to summon and capture me. I wondered briefly what contingency plan or item he had conjured up that he thought would hold me. Whatever it was in my somewhat weakened condition I would need to be careful.

The female looked at her watch, "How long are we going to wait?"

"At least 15 minutes. We don't know if or when Mr. Kirkland got the message we left."

Bond, of course, used this exchange as his cue to enter.

"The message was received," he said as he nonchalantly strolled out from behind the pile of crates.

I heard the soft thunk of a door closing. I first though it was one of my friends providing a sound effect but no, there were two other people quietly moving into cover behind the crates and I knew exactly who they were.

The male bodyguard had a hand on his firearm. The female hadn't moved.

Graham looked him up and down, "You are not Kirkland."

Bond smiled and I knew exactly what he was going to say.

"The name is Bond, James Bond"

"I don't suppose Mr. Bond," Hayden was also smiling, "that you'd be willing to hand over that sword you have on you back in exchange for some remuneration?"

"We might be able to come to an agreement," Bond replied in a similar tone, "If you can tell me why it ended up in my apartment after disappearing from the V&A and being used to kill 4 people?"

Hayden's eyebrows went up, "Oh my! Well that changes things substantially."

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to explain?"

"Interesting that you do not know," Hayden said half to himself then continued, "Regardless of whether or not we come to an agreement Mr. Bond how it came into your possession means that the sword must be won in combat."

"I did not think a business man such as you would be so superstitious," was Bond's mild reply.

This, I realized, was one of the things that made Bond so effective as an agent. His ability to read people was refined to the point that nine times out of ten he could provide an appropriate response without fully understanding the background. Then I spotted the slight smile on his face and revised my estimation. No, Bond had some understanding about the difference between purchasing a weapon and winning it in a fight. What he didn't know was that in this case, with my sword, the superstition about a purchased weapon turning on you was all too real. I mentally winced as I remembered, the repercussions to the seller in such a situation were also not to be trifled with.

"It doesn't hurt to follow tradition," Hayden replied and looked at his female bodyguard.

She drew her sword.

Bond unsheathed mine from its makeshift baldric, dropping the sheath on the floor and kicking it away.

The female started advancing and I had to make a decision. I knew Bond was a good fighter but his expertise was with fists, and knives and guns. He had some training with a sword at one point in his youth but I knew he'd be no match for her despite his extra reach and strength. There was no way around it. I'd need to risk whatever contingency measure Hayden had given his male bodyguard.

"Shall we dance?" the female asked as she stopped just out of sword reach of Bond and started to bring up her sword in what I suspected would be an abbreviated salute prior to an all-out attack.

"I think not," I said as I stepped out from the glamor's concealment.

The results were immediate. Graham and his male body guard focused on me. The female turned so she could see both Bond and I. Bond remained focused on his opponent but I could tell he was using his peripheral vision to track me.

"This has gone far enough," I said as I started moving toward Bond.

"Ah, Mr. Kirkland I presume," Hayden sounded smug.

I inclined my head in acknowledgement. Then, as I watched his eyes widened slightly. He recognized me. No, even worse he was one of those rare individuals who could innately sense my nature. It wasn't enough of a gift or a connection to the land to be properly called _the sight_ but it did mean that he had known I was much more than I seemed. Damn and blast. The odds were good that he now realized that I was the sword's proper wielder not just its guardian.

"You didn't think I'd leave my charge completely unwatched."

Maybe I could sow a little doubt into his conviction about my identity. No such luck.

By that time I was now within arm's reach of Bond. I looked him in the eyes. He twitched minutely either in surprise or recognition, I couldn't tell which. However much to my surprise, Bond dropped to one knee and formally offered me the sword flat across his palms. I had no clue what exactly had prompted him to do that but I took the gesture as offered and grabbed my sword. I extended my other hand, grabbed Bond's forearm and pulled him to his feet. Our eyes met again and he nodded slightly then smoothly moved out of the way. I turned to face my opponent.

She grinned and brought her sword up in a full formal salute.

I returned the salute and together we moved to engage.

She was large for a woman and clearly quite fit. The first couple of touches were simply testing on both sides. She also had speed in her favor with a lighter weapon. I had reach in mine. Time would tell about stamina and strength. I suspected she had a bunch of dirty tricks that she'd use without hesitation if given the opportunity. I was somewhat hindered by the need to keep an eye on the bodyguard with the _contingency measure_ whatever that was. Then again keeping track of allies and enemies in the chaos of a battlefield was similar. It had been a while but once learned those skills never left. In addition, I had Q in the rafters with the sniper rifle as well as Bond. If Q couldn't get a clear shot on the bodyguard I suspected that Bond might be able to take him out before anything untoward happened.

A few more testing touches and then the fight began in earnest. Slice, parry, step, riposte; rinse and repeat. The sound of sword on sword began to raise old memories of battles long past. Remember later, there is only the now. Touch, clash, swing dodge the kick; Oh, it was going to be that kind of fight then. Twist, block, catch her blade with the guard for a moment, pull and punch; two can play at that game. Dodge and back off for a moment. We were back to testing again.

Attack, parry; she was attempting to draw me in a particular direction. I obliged to a degree. Step over the discarded baldric and smile. Avoid a rush, attempt a trip, a turnabout and the dagger I had noticed earlier made a sudden appearance in her off hand. Interesting. I parried the next sword strike and feinted a kick to her knee to keep the dagger out of play while drawing my own.

"Carwennan!" I heard Graham exclaim.

Well at least he knew the proper name for my dagger. Out of the corner of my eye I saw motion. There was now separation between the bodyguard and Graham. Thrust, parry, dodge, use the dagger to block, her sword blade scraping along its edge. Carwennan is not technically a sword breaker, she is more of a thrusting/parrying dagger, but the cross guard can partially trap a blade if someone doesn't know the proper counter. Rats, my opponent knew the counter and executed it. I wouldn't catch her that way again. Back to testing. This was more of a fight than I had expected. She really was quite good.

Crap! More people had arrived outside. Friends? Foes? I couldn't spare the attention so I would need to trust whatever information the land thought to impart. Oh. They were taking out the guards and securing the perimeter. That meant… Damn that was a good shirt. First blood to her. Concentrate. Time to finish this.

Movement, from both the bodyguard and Bond. Adjust my position to keep the bodyguard in sight at least peripherally. The bodyguard stopped moving. He had either spotted my notice or was reacting to something Bond did. No he was splitting his focus between where I had last registered Bond and his employer. Good, I wouldn't need to worry about the contingency measure at least for a bit.

The next exchange of blows were faster and harder. She thought she had me now. Not quite. I was just waiting for an opening. Around we went exchanging blows. I saw it then, a bit of a hesitation. That would be just enough if I could position the counter strike correctly. Unfortunately, to do that would require me to put both Graham and the bodyguard directly at my back. Not an ideal move but the alternative would require me to kill her which would be counterproductive in determining the whys and wherefores of the last few days.

It took a bit but I gave her the opening. She took the predictable response. The swords rang with the impact then I countered letting it scrape down the edge. There was a sudden report. I ignored it. A twist of the arm and her sword went flying just as I had planned. There was a crash and the sound of running feet. I caught movement but it was not directed at me. I moved in close and took her down with a modified leg sweep ending up with my knee pinning her dagger hand to the ground. I wasn't going to take a chance of a false yield so a precisely placed hilt to the head stunned her and I tossed her dagger aside. It was at that point I consciously registered there had been at least one, if not two, gunshots during the take down.

A quick look around confirmed the situation. The bodyguard was on the floor, clearly dead. Bond was untangling some sort of silvery netting from his arm. Graham was standing very still, with John Watson holding a gun to the back of his head. Sherlock was standing behind Watson reaching into his pocket. He came up with something that looked from my point of view like zip ties and proceeded to bind Graham's hands behind his back. Sherlock then levered him not so gently to the floor.

I made sure my opponent was completely out by the simple expedient of compressing her carotid artery for a bit. I then looked around for something to wipe down my blades. If worse came to worse my now ruined sleeve would do.

I didn't need to resort to that. Bond walked over, having divested the dead bodyguard of his weapons, and handed me a handkerchief. I wondered momentarily at the oddity. Who the heck carries a cloth handkerchief in this disposable day and age? Clearly the answer was James Bond.

I left the swords woman to Bond's not so tender mercy and dealt with my weaponry. Once cleaned Carwennan went back on my hip. I looked around and noted that Bond had moved back to allow Watson to secure her hands. Of course, immediately after doing that he shifted into physician mode.

The land told me that the fight outside had concluded and that two more people were heading for the door. I had a good idea who it was so I didn't bother to ask and continued wiping off my sword. Just then a flash of blue caught my attention. Ah, Sapphire had left the sword's true sheath. I walked over and retrieved it, sheathing the sword. Now I could turn my attention to the new arrivals.

The Holmes brothers were all assessing me. Mycroft had clearly just entered, leaving his assistant Lisa at the door. He was attired as usual in a suit and carried what I knew was definitely not just an umbrella. He looked slightly annoyed. Q on the other hand was walking across the floor looking all too comfortable with the sniper rifle slung over his shoulder. His expression was curious. Sherlock was standing over Graham with John Watson's pistol in his hand. He was scanning me from head to toe but I knew if Graham tried anything Sherlock would react. I wasn't too surprised when Sherlock spoke first.

"She didn't have a chance did she," He half asked, half stated. "Not with a sword custom made for you and the relative amounts of experience. The question remains how…"

He was interrupted by a snort of from Graham on the floor.

"You have no clue," he muttered. "You have him and you can control the whole nation."

The three Holmes brothers, Bond and Lisa all focused their attention on Graham. This was going to be interesting. Would Graham elaborate? Not with the _I know something you don't know_ smirk he was wearing. I wondered just how much Mycroft had found out about me and would he acknowledge what he knew by responding? Unlikely. Mycroft never let an adversary have information unless it led to an advantage. Or would it be Sherlock with a smart remark? No, Sherlock was too confused by the discrepancies in my mannerisms and appearance. There was an off chance that Q might respond. God only knew how much of my recent history had left an electronic trail and what he'd managed to deduce from it. Much to my surprise it was none of the above.

From his position on the floor where he was checking my still unconscious former opponent John Watson replied conversationally without even looking up, "Sorry, I don't think it works that way around."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** This chapter gave me fits until I realized that the POV needed to be Arthur Kirkland himself. On an unrelated note, I updated the Timeline and Character Roster over on AO3. That document is now complete up to The Watson Files Chapter 12.


	14. Drinks and Deductions

**Title:** History Lesson

 **Disclaimer:** I own no rights, I make no profit.

* * *

 **Chapter 13 – Drinks and Deductions**

I accepted my drink, a gin and tonic, from Lisa and glanced around the room. We were in the rooms Mycroft kept in the Diogenes club which was probably the most secure place in the city given the assembled company. Lisa continued serving drinks and I reflected on the events of the past several hours.

Bond and I had managed to get to the meeting location well before the appointed time. I had to laugh when I saw what we were dealing with. How much more cliché can you get than a little used warehouse? It had been simple to pick the lock on one of the doors and gain access to the main area. Once again we were lucky. The security lighting was enough to see by and there were only a few pallets of crates and boxes in a couple of piles on the main floor. An office was cantilevered off one wall with an exposed stairway connecting it to the ground floor. From the top of the office the rafters and beams were easily accessible. It hadn't taken long after we'd entered to get settled, myself in the rafters and Bond on top of the largest pile of crates.

I had armed myself from the arsenal that was the boot of the car. Of course, I recognized that a good portion of the armaments had been declared _lost_ or _broken beyond repair_ by one or another of the 00 over the years. I snagged the briefcase which stored a sniper rifle and a handgun. Bond hadn't objected to my choices. While I'm good with a handgun I'm much better with a rifle thanks to Mycroft. Somehow, it seemed, that Bond knew that.

Once settled I was prepared for a bit of a wait but our putative note writer had also arrived early trailing two bodyguards. The ensuing conversation among the thugs and their employer provided Bond an absolutely stellar opportunity to make an entrance which he did. His movement also managed to provide cover for Sherlock and John who had chosen just that instant to enter through the back door out of sight of the thugs. Things started moving very quickly at that point. Bond seemed to be doing all in his power to provoke a sword fight with the female bodyguard when out of a corner I was sure had been empty when we arrived stepped a man in what looked like olive-green trousers, a jumper and tie. His messy blond hair had a ragged fringe over his forehead making him seem absurdly young. That was belied by the way he moved. I remember thinking that this was someone who was used to command, knew exactly what he was doing and why.

The note writer seemed to recognize him. He addressed him as Kirkland. What really surprised me was Bond's response. He seemed to recognize the young man also. I had made a mental note to ask Bond later why exactly he had given Kirkland the sword in that particular manner. The resulting sword fight between Kirkland and the female bodyguard, what little I saw of it, had been impressive. I, however, was more focused on keeping the male bodyguard who had some unknown _contingency measure_ in my sights. When the male bodyguard pulled a weapon the difference between myself and Bond became evident. Where I shot to wound, Bond shot to kill.

By the time I had made it down to the warehouse floor the note writer was secure, the female was out cold being tended to by Watson and Mycroft had arrived. I don't know what Mycroft had been planning when he walked in but it was clearly derailed by John's offhand response to our note writer's assertion that somehow this whole set-up was a means to gain control of the government. Mr. Kirkland had also seemed surprised by John's statement and I think that was what caused Mycroft to divert us all to his club rather than his office while his people cleaned up the scene.

Lisa handed Mycroft his scotch as he stood next to his desk and then parked herself in a chair by the door. John was in one of the wing back chairs with Sherlock perched on its arm. Bond and I took up the small sofa. Kirkland was in the other wingback chair commanding all our attention as if he'd been sitting on a throne.

He took a drink and addressed Watson, "You've met one of us before?"

It wasn't really a question.

John snorted slightly, "I patched up Jones several times in Afghanistan."

"And you remember? Interesting."

"I've also met Matthew Williams," John added, "He's the one who explained the whole thing."

Kirkland pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, "Expecting you to forget."

"Yeah, he mentioned that too."

Sherlock looked like he'd been hit over the head with something, "Bored American Marines?" He muttered.

John looked up at him smiling, "Yep."

Mycroft cleared his throat, "As entertaining as it is, this conversation is not at all enlightening regarding the particular situation at hand."

Kirkland moved a hand to his chin, placing an elbow on the chair arm and cocked his head at Mycroft and asked "And to what particular situation are you referring?"

Mycroft looked briefly like he'd eaten a lemon before he reluctantly admitted, "The situation about which I clearly don't have all the facts."

He glared around the room, his gaze finally settling on Watson, as if he could will him to explain what exactly it was that he knew. John, however, was focused on Kirkland whose face was carefully neutral. It was a classic agent's tactic. I'd seen Bond use it numerous times when he wanted to see how a situation developed. It was at this point that Sherlock, clearly in a bid to defend John from Mycroft's not inconsiderable ire, started in on one of his deductive rants.

"You," he said gesturing at Kirkland, "are clearly a deep cover agent with your own unique handler known as _The Historian_ probably because Mr. Levonson actually was a history professor and his legitimate connection to the intelligence community was as a chronicler of black ops and other top-secret missions. You and he were nominally under Mycroft's purview but clearly my brother doesn't know much, if anything, about you or your mission which of course makes him nervous and more importantly annoyed."

I heard a very faint noise from Lisa that sounded like a stifled snort. Mycroft was again looking like he'd eaten a lemon but he didn't say anything. Bond had on his gambling face but I could tell he was amused.

"Someone, probably an informant of yours from one of your _cultural_ meetings," Sherlock inclined his head at Kirkland, "tipped you off over a week ago, probably Thursday, that Mr. Hayden, the premier purveyor of forged documents in the country, was interested in Professor Levonson. Knowing Mr. Hayden's interest in historical artifacts, especially documents, I postulate that that there was something he wished obtained and he was not above using Levonson's putative nephew, Mr. Kirkland, as leverage to ensure cooperation. You judged the threat to be credible and arranged for Professor Levonson to take a leave of absence but you didn't want to appear to be in a huge hurry and tip off Mr. Hayden so the professor kept his office hours on Friday as usual before meeting up with you so you both could disappear until the threat was dealt with. Unfortunately, this delay allowed Hayden's people time enough to set something up."

Kirkland had shifted in his chair at this. His elbow was now on the chair arm with his chin resting on his hand. I noticed some roughness to his knuckles and could also see a bit of what just might have been remnants of rope burn on his wrist. He looked contemplative.

Sherlock kept going, "They drugged you two, tied you up and tossed you in the back of a lorry then hauled you back to their base in London. "You managed to get out of your bonds only to find that Mr. Levonson was having a bad reaction to the GHB derivative provided by Mr. Hayden's associates. You attempted to get out the back door of the lorry and when that didn't work you punched the side wall in frustration. The two Canadians and Mr. Scott used your companion's condition to ensure your cooperation in getting into the warehouse."

Sherlock paused momentarily, "Why the criminal classes think an abandoned warehouse is the ultimate in safety and security for nefarious purposes I'll never understand. What you really need is a busy tourist Hotel. The staff has seen it all and as long as you are not obnoxious, loud or overly demanding they are not going to question whatever strange thing you get up to." Sherlock glanced at Bond, "Of course, high end hotels are even better if you have the money to pull it off."

Bond inclined his head in acknowledgement of Sherlock's point.

"Canadians?" John asked,

"Shoes and the tattoo in French…clearly Quebec," Sherlock responded.

"They indicated what they wanted," Sherlock gestured at the sword which was propped up in its sheath beside Mr. Kirkland's chair, "and you agreed to have a confederate get it in exchange for Mr. Levonson receiving medical attention. After you contacted your confederate they drugged both of you again despite Mr. Levonson's previous bad reaction and he died of a heart attack."

Kirkland's lips pursed slightly and there was a flash of anger tinged with a bit of sadness or regret on his face. Only my years interpreting the expressions of the 00's and before them Mycroft enabled me to spot it.

"Your confederate stole the sword with the assistance of one of the security guards." Sherlock paused again clearly struck by an idea, "I'd be really interested in which one by the way. They managed to fool some of Mycroft's best as well as jigger the electronics well enough to keep Q here from figuring out what happened. I could really use someone like that if they were willing to freelance."

"That was in the wee hours of Tuesday morning," John interjected.

I realized then what Watson was doing. Sherlock's deductions and thoughts always ran way faster than his verbal explanations so he'd often skip over details. To an outsider it would look like he was making up facts from thin air and getting side tracked on non-essential tangents. John, by asking strategic questions or restating a fact was in effect getting Sherlock to reset his narrative and not jump ahead to keep up with his reasoning.

"Mr. Scott was tasked with hiding the lorry containing Mr. Levonson's body and picking up the sword. He does the lorry first by fitting in with all the other early morning deliveries on Tuesday and stashing it in the car park with a bunch of other truck belonging to his ex-employer. He picks up the sword from wherever it was arranged to meet. Scott being a relative novice at the spy game allows your confederate to tail him back to the warehouse. He probably thought his detour to his favorite hole-in-the wall eatery was enough to confuse any surveillance. In the meantime, his Canadian counterparts have been setting the scene for your beheading. They are hoping, of course to confuse the issue and make everyone look toward a Middle Eastern origin for the crime rather than a _home grown_ one."

Sherlock smiled at Kirkland, "Of course at this point you have a good idea about what is going on and have managed to get free again. You bide your time until the sword arrives, trusting that your confederate is not far behind. You fight, managing to kill your three captors but you are injured yourself. Your confederate comes in on the tail end and is also wounded. Together you two escape the scene taking all the tech with you that you can find and your friend's pet monkey throws the deadbolt on the door."

John looked confused, "But that amount of blood…"

"Both were injured badly enough to require them to hole up for four days John. That's consistent with the crime scene," Sherlock explained.

"The only thing I'm not clear on is why did Mr. Bond end up with your sword? Clearly you've run into each other before but he is not your confederate."

Sherlock was looking at Kirkland intently clearly hoping for a more detailed explanation. I was curious as well but what I really wanted an explanation for was Mycroft's behavior. I found it very strange that Mycroft hadn't once interrupted Sherlock's deductive rant. It was normally a game between the two of them. Could Sherlock get out his entire train of reasoning before Mycroft poked a hole in a piece of it. Since I'd been kidnapped what had previously been a cut-throat contest of one-upmanship had degenerated back to what it had been in the first place, a friendly rivalry. I'd been glad to see the change. It certainly made dealing with both of them at once more pleasant. I glanced in his direction. Mycroft had that slightly abstracted look which meant that he was rapidly sorting through large amounts of disparate information.

Bond caught where I was looking and commented in a low voice for my ears only, "You get that look when hacking for information."

I didn't get a chance to respond because Mycroft broke his silence, "There was no monkey brother mine. Just a judicious application of lock picks."

"It's always something!"

Kirkland chuckled, "Both wrong; it wasn't even that complex. The door was slammed and the lock engaged. There is a certain amount of randomness in any series of events. Mr. Bond is another example. I just happened to spot him on Saturday. Knowing who he was and his skill set I knew the sword would be safe with him. I must admit I didn't expect either it or any of you to show up at the rendezvous."

"While enlightening as of all of this is," Mycroft spoke in his _I'm going to take charge of the situation since no one else appears to want or able to_ voice, "it does not address the problem of how to reestablish Mr. Kirkland's cover and lines of communication in addition to insuring that a similar situation never happens again."

I could hear the implicit _at least not on my watch_ tacked onto the end of his statement.

Bond shifted slightly. I looked at him and he gave a little half smile. I knew that smile. It was the one he threw at CCTV cameras just before all hell broke loose. This time, however, he seemed to be waiting for my agreement that I'd follow his lead and back him up. As if I wouldn't back him up. He was my agent and, well, I was beginning to believe he could indeed be something more. I gave him my best _of course you idiot_ looks and that little smile broke into a grin.

"Obvious," Bond said doing a rather good impression of Sherlock's voice and mannerisms. He reverted to his normal voice and continued, "Mr. Kirkland is an agent, treat him as one. Run things from Q-Branch or MI 5's Logistics as a deep cover asset. They are both already set up for those types of operations. You add a few more levels of protection and you have something that is more robust than a single point of contact. Run the routine stuff using old-school trade-craft, recognition codes, blind drops and the like. Do it correctly and the supporting staff will never know exactly who they are dealing with. It also has the side benefit of making the whole operation less vulnerable to hacking." Bond looked at me, "Even you can't hack something that isn't in the system in the first place."

Kirkland looked thoughtful, Mycroft surprised, and Sherlock just grinned at Bond's suggestion. I think Sherlock was just enjoying the look on Mycroft's face.

After a moment of silence Kirkland said, "That should work."

It wasn't really a statement. It seemed to be an order.

I was a little surprised when Mycroft agreed without any comment by nodding and making a little affirmative huffing sound.

Sherlock looked back and forth between the two. It was clear to me that he was also confused by Mycroft's agreement.

Finally, he blurted, "Well that's fine but what are you going to do about Lestrade's murder investigation?"

"Label it a _need to know_ take down of a terrorist operation and hide it under the Official Secrets Act," I chimed in.

"Will that hold up to scrutiny?" Kirkland asked.

It was my turn to grin, "It will when I'm done with it."

Kirkland finished his drink and stood. I'm not quite sure why but every last one of us in the room followed suit.

"I think, Gentlemen and Lady," Kirkland said looking around the room and meeting each of our eyes in turn for a few seconds, "that we've solved the most immediate problems and the remainder can be handled between myself and the Quartermaster."

Kirkland turned looked at both Mycroft and Sherlock, "I assume that you gentlemen will be able to return this to it's proper place?" he gestured at the sword.

They nodded in unison.

He moved toward the door, "Quartermaster?"

He looked at me and included Bond with a inclination of his head. We followed in his wake.

"But sir," Lisa blurted as she started to open the door, "Bran the raven is still missing."

I didn't understand that particular non-sequitur and neither did Bond but judging from the reactions around the room everyone else had some sort of reference point for that assertion. Kirkland just chuckled.

"Don't worry about that my dear," he informed her, "He'll turn up where he belongs shortly,"

With that he strode out of the room and Bond and I were left to catch up.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** One more full chapter after this followed by an epilogue. Total word count should be somewhere close to 45K. Technically by the standards of the Science Fiction Nebula Awards I've written another novel!

Addendum: For those of you not familiar with Hetalia; Jones = Alfred F. Jones the personification of the U.S. and Matthew Williams is the personification of Canada.


	15. Understanding England

**Title:** History Lesson

 **Disclaimer:** I own no rights, I make no profit.

* * *

 **Chapter 14 – Understanding England**

I found myself being thankful that it was one of those rare nice days in London. I'd vacated the flat because one of Sherlock's experiments was seriously odiferous even with the window wide open. As I wandered into Regent's Park I wondered about the potential of turning Ms. Hudson's basement flat or that unused space in the attic into a full-fledged laboratory, complete with vent hood, for Sherlock. The very generous check we'd received from Mycroft for our efforts regarding the missing sword from the V&A would make a good dent in the necessary remodeling. I continued to stroll; daydreaming about the potential for a lack of body parts in the refrigerator, when I was interrupted by a familiar voice.

"Dr. Watson."

I turned and found that I had been joined by Mr. Kirkland. I hadn't seen him since he'd left Mycroft's rooms in the Diogenes Club several weeks ago in the company of Q and Bond. He'd managed to lose the slightly battered and scruffy look he'd been sporting that night. He had also ditched the aura of _I'm the person in control who has all the answers_. Now he just appeared to be a generic office worker taking a break in the unseasonably good weather; the type of person no one would look at twice.

"Coffee?" he asked.

"Sure," I replied and I let him lead me in the direction of the Garden Café.

We ended up at an outside table overlooking the Rose Garden.

"So," he said after the first sip of coffee, "I'm curious. What exactly did Matthew tell you?"

"It didn't seem like a lot to be honest," I smiled at the memory. "He explained that nations and sometimes cities or regions develop _avatars_ for lack of a better term. An avatar will reflect the basic underlying nature of the nation they represent and will be influenced by the zeitgeist of the people and politics at any particular time. He said it was why Jones always ended up a tad bit mental during the run up to the U.S. Presidential elections. He also noted that only in very rare occasions would the avatar be able to influence the nation itself."

"Not a bad summation. Did he tell you anything else?"

"He mentioned that you lot had an innate defense mechanism, an _aura of forgetfulness_ he called it. If you are not dealing with an _avatar_ directly for a substantial period of time you just tend to forget the whole concept. It also tends to make people not notice when one of you did something out of the ordinary. Matthew actually complained a bit about the fact that he had this particular ability in spades. He said it was so powerful that if he stood still and didn't say anything people wouldn't even notice he existed."

I paused for a moment and tried to remember.

"Oh, we swapped stories. I don't remember the details of the ones he told me but I do remember that I found them amusing. Although I do recall that one was about someone he knew, a German officer, a female and feathers; or was it a female wearing feathers?"

"Interesting," was Kirkland's response.

I took a sip of my coffee and wondered if it was appropriate for me to ask questions. It must have shown on my face or Kirkland was as good at picking up on my tells as Sherlock.

"Go ahead and ask," he smiled at me, "I'll just reserve the right not to give you an answer."

I took him up on the offer.

"So do you know how this forgetting thing is going to work on the Holmes brothers? Sherlock does this _mind palace_ thing that means he only forgets something if he actively deletes it. I'm relatively sure Mycroft taught it to him which means Q most likely does it too."

Kirkland thought for a moment then responded, "I suspect that the information will be retained but the things that trigger access to the information will decay over time if they are not reinforced. I'm hoping that it will get to the point where the only thing that will allow them to remember is meeting me face to face."

Given what Mr. Williams had said about the need for interaction Kirkland's supposition sounded reasonable. Even more so it explained something I had noted in Sherlock's behavior over the last week.

"It may not take as long as you might think," I told him. "Sherlock has been consistently downgrading what we've been calling the _Terrorist Swordfight_ over the last week. It started out as a seven and as of last night it was _barely a five_."

"So what counts as a four?"

"Fours aren't generally worth leaving the flat," I replied.

Kirkland smiled, "Well, that's good news. I couldn't tell if all the work I did keeping their attention focused where I wanted it at the Diogenes club had much of an effect."

I covered my surprise with another sip of coffee. So I hadn't been imagining the subtle command presence Kirkland had been exhibiting that night.

"Well that explains why Mycroft wasn't his usual overbearing self."

"I would have used the term _domineering_ ," Kirkland commented, "but you are probably correct. Nice to know I haven't completely lost the ability to _make friends and influence…people_."

"Speaking of people what effect will this have on Bond and Mycroft's name changing P.A.?"

"Lisa is like you and other folks who are fae touched. She'll remember more or less and generally have a good instinct as to when to keep her own counsel."

"Fae touched?" I had to ask.

Kirkland shrugged, "Old term. I think the nearest modern equivalent would be _psychic_ but that has completely different connotations. It also used to be called _the sight_ in its strongest form but that still doesn't' explain it."

"And Bond?"

"Ah, Bond. He is indeed a special case. He comes from a long line of people who have acted on behalf of monarch and country."

Kirkland had a strange look on his face, part abstracted and part wistful.

"I will need to deal with Mr. _James Bond,_ " he finally murmured before shaking himself and focusing back on me.

It was clear from Kirkland's expression that he wasn't going to elaborate. I cast around for a change of subject. I realized that even after Sherlock's denouement the other evening no one present had acknowledged the death of Professor Levonson. Regardless of Kirkland's actual relationship to the man, not that I believed the nephew claim, he had lost a friend and colleague in difficult circumstances. That needed to be acknowledged.

"I didn't get to express this the other night but I'm sorry for the loss of Professor Levonson."

"Thank you," Kirkland replied then added, "He knew the risks inherent in the position but I don't think he ever considered being felled by a bad drug reaction. I know he would have preferred to go out in a gunfight or something similar." He sighed, "Well he did technically die in the line of duty and Lisa has made sure his records will reflect that even if the details are highly classified."

"That was good of her," I agreed then decided to ask the obvious question in a round about fashion. "I hope you get along well enough with whomever they decide to replace him."

Kirkland's eyebrows went up. He clearly hadn't expected that.

"It's a rather unique position; part conduit, part confidant, with a high security clearance required. I'm going to have a hard time finding someone suitable given that the two most qualified candidates are way too invested in their current situations." He smiled at me, "The care and feeding of genius tends to be a full-time job in and of itself."

It was my turn to be surprised. Kirkland's implication was clear but I agreed with him for a different reason than the one he had expressed. Both Lisa and I were too dangerous to use especially after what he'd said about the Holmes brothers not really forgetting but instead losing the triggers that would allow them to access the knowledge. Too much contact, even indirectly, and the triggers had the possibility to not decay at all.

"So what are you going to do?" I asked not really expecting an answer.

"Keep my eyes open for a replacement," Kirkland replied. "A Historian is nice but not absolutely necessary. It makes some things easier but it's one more secret to be kept by a government with a propensity to either leak or lose things."

With that he looked up suddenly, "Speaking of lost things…"

I followed the direction of his gaze and spotted a large raven in a nearby tree. The raven, as if he'd been waiting for a break in the conversation, spread his wings and fluttered over to land on the table. I could see the feathers on one of his wings had been clipped.

The raven made a bobbing motion reminiscent of a bow toward my companion then vocalized a single croak.

Kirkland cocked his head and replied to the raven, "Yes, I am aware, thank you."

The raven croaked again.

"No, I don't need your assistance at this time."

The raven made a sound that resembled a scoff then ruffled his feathers.

"You really should return to your post. You know your absence has been causing a good deal of consternation in the halls of power," Kirkland's tone was slightly scolding.

Before that moment I couldn't have told you what ashamed looked like on a bird.

The raven made another croaking sound.

"I suppose I'll have to," Kirkland replied to the bird, "if only to make sure you aren't subject to a court martial."

He turned his attention back to me, "I must apologize. It seems I'm needed to get my friend here," he gestured to the raven, "out of trouble for going AWOL."

I wasn't quite sure why but the dynamic between Kirkland and the raven reminded me of the times I'd seen an enlisted service member do something not quite above board to protect an officer and the officer ensuring that the enlisted person didn't unduly suffer for their transgression.

"I understand," I said, "Have fun assailing the bureaucracy."

We both stood then and shook hands. Kirkland offered his arm for the raven to perch upon and they headed off through the park. If I hadn't already believed in the aura that Mathew had described I would have now. It was interesting to watch people completely ignore the strange sight of a man carrying a raven across the park as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary. I wondered if anyone would even notice once they hit the main streets of London.

I had finished my coffee so I headed out too. It didn't take very long before I arrived back at Baker street. Much to my surprise the flat had been aired out and the detritus of the experiment had been cleared away. Sherlock was sitting in his chair reading something on his mobile.

He looked up as I entered and I could see him scanning me for clues as to where I had been. It didn't take long before he made that soft _humph_ sound which indicated the end of a chain of deductions. I was interested to see what he'd make of my morning given the potential impact of the forgetfulness effect.

"You went to the park," Sherlock started out. "You didn't intend to stay long but you met a friend and ended up having coffee at the Garden Café. Your friend was military and couldn't stay long. You took a turn around the rose garden and then returned here."

I thought for a moment. The amount of time I had been gone would have given him a rough radius of my potential wanderings. I imagined my hair, the fact that it was a nice day, and his knowledge of my habits would have indicated that I had walked to where I was going. That would narrow the radius from the flat a bit further. I looked down at my shoes. Yes there were some tiny bits of vegetation on the outside of the sole. Clearly that was the evidence which Sherlock had use to deduce the park and the rose garden. I looked at my jumper. There was a small coffee stain on the sleeve. Of course Sherlock would have noticed that I had not had the stain on the way out the door. Since I don't tend to get coffee alone, meeting someone would have been a reasonable assumption. The Garden Café would have been a good guess from the plant material. I wouldn't put it past Sherlock to have an encyclopedic knowledge of the specific types of plant material one would pick up in any of London's major parks. I thought some more but I couldn't think of anything that would have sparked him to deduce the military connection. Had it been a guess?

I looked back at Sherlock. It was clear he'd been following my thoughts as I attempted to reason out the evidence for each of his statements.

"Not a guess," he said.

"Oh?"

"The plant material told me your path through the park and the time factor narrowed down the exact park even if I hadn't seen you cross the road as opposed to heading for the tube. You are correct that the coffee stain was new as are the tiny flakes of paint on your trousers. The outside furniture at the Garden Café is the only establishment in the park that leaves such residue on clothing because all the others use metal or plastic furniture. The Garden Café has painted wood. That you sat outside is obvious from your hair and complexion. Normally you sit with the sun at your back because the warmth helps your shoulder. You might not move for a mere acquaintance but you would sit so that a friend wouldn't have to look into the sun."

"Ok," I said, "not a guess but military?"

"When you've been with active or ex-military you tend to hold yourself differently. You tend to mimic their stance. It's very obvious when you come into contact with active military types and less so the longer they have been out and lost _the polish_ I think it's called."

I realized then that I was standing in a rough approximation of parade rest.

"Correct as usual," I commented as I moved and sat in my chair.

Something in the way I said it must have tipped Sherlock off.

"What?" he asked.

"It was more of an acquaintance. A friend of a couple of guys I worked with in Afghanistan. We had a nice chat."

It wasn't a lie. Arthur was indeed a friend of Matthew and Alfred whom I had worked with in Afghanistan. I wondered if Sherlock would ask for more detail and if so what the heck I could say without bringing up the recent case. I needn't have worried. It seemed that the forgetting things effect was still going strong.

He muttered, "It's always something!" and went back to his reading.

I mentally sighed in relief. All was right with the world.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** Well gentle readers we are almost at the end of this installment in the 2.5 Holmes' verse. Only a short Hetalia centric epilogue to go.

For those of you non-Hetalia fans the reference to the German officer and the bird is to Gilbert Beilschmidt the incarnation of Prussia. He is often seen with a small yellow bird or chick which is known in the fandom as gilbird.


	16. Epilogue

**Title:** History Lesson

 **Disclaimer:** I own no rights, I make no profit.

* * *

 **Epilogue**

The meeting was all over except for the socializing. I'd given my report about my recent escapade along with a stern warning about cyber security for our _normal_ personas. Maybe, just maybe, I'd managed to convince most of those present of the danger. Only time would tell. Given that I wasn't feeling very sociable I had collected a drink and repaired to a quiet corner of the room. If anyone wanted to discuss they would have to come to me.

I expected Alfred first but to my surprise it was Kiku. After a ritual exchange of bows we sat.

"Do you think the group that went after you was related to the cell of terrorists who attacked Alfred-san?"

I was surprised, usually the Japanese aspect would not raise the issue of his concern without at least a half-hour of pleasantries and unrelated small talk. My report must have somehow unnerved him.

"Not really," I replied. "My people have managed to find out that one of the Canadian's I killed was the information broker for the hacked lists. He received the short list for Alfred's _Historian_ position along with the prior three lists that had been forwarded around. He managed to sell the American list to the group that went after Alfred. He was attempting to sell the other lists but the CIA was getting too close so he traded my list from five years ago to a criminal operating out of Birmingham in exchange for documents and a new life in the U.K."

"But why would a criminal be interested in the list at all?" Kiku asked. "Blackmail?"

"Unfortunately not. I met Mr. Hayden once. He was sensitive enough to have an inkling of my true nature. He was a history buff and after that meeting he went on a research binge. He managed to assemble quite the collection of documents both ancient and modern containing oblique references to us. He very nearly had the entire picture at least about me. His only mistake was concluding that he could use me to control the government."

Kiku smiled at that, "I presume you disabused him of that notion."

"I didn't need to do so. One of mine did the job quite handily."

"And the other lists? Did you determine if they had been sold?"

Ah, so that was the concern. Kiku, I remembered, had also replaced his historian at roughly the same time I had done so.

"Your list was not one of those in his possession," I reassured him. "But, even if it had been an analysis of his computer and cyber presence indicated that the only two lists which had been sold were mine and Alfred's."

"You are sure of your people's analysis?"

"Yes, I am sure." I decided to give Kiku the best reassurance I could so I added, "Pestilence did the computer forensics."

Kiku relaxed at that, "Pestilence is one of yours?"

"Yes."

"Well then, I need not worry about your security in that regard," Kiku commented as he rose to leave. "I wish all of our colleagues were so well protected."

"So do I," I agreed.

Of course, Kiku couldn't just leave without getting one last word in, "So," he said as he turned away, "It would be prudent of you to warn him that Radical Ed says _Hi_."

Oh great. Just what I needed. I'd have to warn Q that he was about to be the recipient of a rather serious testing of his firewalls.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** For those of you unfamiliar with Hetalia, the avatar for Japan is Kiku Honda. I also borrowed the premise from MIA: Missing in America by Kneoria (Erif_of_Taloma on AO3) that Kiku uses Radical Edward the 3rd (which is itself a reference to Cowboy Bebop) as his hacker handle.

Thank you much for reading and I'll close, as is my custom, with verse borrowed from that oldest of old things (Puck) as channeled by the Bard of Avon:

 _If this writer has offended,  
_ _Think but this and all is mended,  
_ _That you have but tarried here,  
_ _While the writing did appear,  
_ _And these words upon this screen,  
_ _Are of no import, only my dream._

It has been an honor to share my dream with you.


End file.
